





















p • 











» 4 



I 


t 

V * 

i 



t 


4 


0 I i 



> 

i 

' < 

) 



A 



t 

( 




t 


1 


# 










r^y. '■: 


• i 


\ . 



{ 

I 

4 

\ 


'lo ' ■ST-'Z'I 













INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING 



I ' INVINCIBLE 

I MINNIE 

», 

[ BY 

t ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING 

I 

i 



NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


1 . 



COPYRIGHT, 1920, 



BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


\ 


i 

. - ■% 


i 21 1920 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

~\ 


©CI.A565371 



A LITTLE FOREWORD 


This is not intended to be a romantic story, or a 
realistic story — not a tale of anything that ever did hap- 
pen, only of something which might have happened. If 
you know a Minnie, as you very likely do, you will ad- 
mit that, whether or not she is actually guilty of such 
deplorable exploits as herein narrated, she is certainly 
capable of them. Capable of everything! 




CONTENTS 


i 


BOOK ONE: age 

The Campaign Opens 9 

BOOK TWO: 

Frankie’s Brief Day 89 

BOOK THREE: 

Mr. Petersen is Brought Low . . . , 169 

BOOK FOUR: — 

The Destruction of Lionel 233 

BOOK FIVE: 

The Victorious Conclusion 297 

EPILOGUE 317 


vii 





BOOK ONE: THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 



INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


CHAPTER ONE 

I 

Mr. Petersen rode along in the choking dust, con- 
sidering the problem with perplexity but with good- 
humour. After all, it was absurd. ... He wanted to 
be kind, but he didn't want to be ridiculous. 

In spite of himself, a grin came over his face. He 
was remembering his last visit to the old lady. He had 
ridden out to the miserable old farm and very politely 
introduced himself as her new landlord. He had bought 
the place for next to nothing, and, considering this, and 
the dilapidated state it was in, his sensitive conscience 
required that he should reduce the rent. But he never 
got so far as to propose this. 

The old lady received him with lofty affability and 
invited him to sit down in her parlour, then left him 
there for a long time while she prepared refreshments. 
He had waited awkwardly enough, touched by the 
shabbiness of the place and its evident decline. Old 
mahogany furniture, ugly in style, but good — once very 
good — and now so battered, arms gone, legs gone, 
splinters torn off, cushions disgorging hair, springs 
sagging. His skilful fingers longed to be at it. 

She came in again, with a plate of cookies and a jug 
of lemonade, and sat down at a little table to dispense 
them, with a regal air. 

‘'Well !” she said, with a grim smile, ‘T suppose youVe 
come about the rent, Mr. Petersen. I might as well be 


12 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


frank. I haven’t got it. I’ve had orders for some pre- 
serves, so perhaps I’ll have it next month. I hope so. 
I’m sure. But you can’t draw blood from a stone, Mr. 
Petersen.” 

He had gone away that time utterly defeated, and he 
was returning now without much hope. What was one 
to do in such a case? Impossible to turn out the poor 
little old woman of seventy, alone on earth. He didn’t 
need the money from the house, he was quite able to 
permit her to live there free for the rest of her life, but 
that would be, he saw, a ridiculous thing to do. Un- 
businesslike. Fantastic. She would laugh at him, and 
so would everyone else. People would be sure to find 
out, and his reputation as a shrewd and sensible man 
would suffer. And although he was a Socialist, and 
opposed to the paying of rents, his common-sense for- 
bade exceptions. Either no one must pay rent, or every- 
one must. 

He pulled up his horse and wiped his face, for the 
house was in sight and he was anxious to look well in 
the eyes of the queenly and provoking old lady. She 
was a Defoe, and married to a cousin Defoe, and this 
was, to her, a fact of immense significance. From it 
she derived her superiority to everyone else. She re- 
garded Mr. Petersen as nobody at all, and a foreigner 
at that. He was aware of her attitude, and not at all 
pleased, for he had his own modest pride. 

He even went so far as to take out a small pocket 
mirror and smooth his moustache — a long yellow 
moustache, standing out fiercely like a cat’s. His ap- 
pearance was at no time satisfactory to him; it was 
rather too Socialistic. He was an enormous fellow of 
five and thirty, with huge hands and a blunt red face, 
handsome in a way, but certainly lacking in distinction, 
certainly not an exterior to commend itself to a Defoe. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


13 

He was quite correctly dressed in riding breeches and 
a linen jacket, all fitting very well, but all the more of- 
fensive to a Defoe because of their excellence. In 
Brownsville Landing people of Mr. Petersen’s class 
didn’t ride horseback under any circumstances ; above all, 
not in clothes designed for such a purpose. It was pre- 
sumptuous and it was foreign. 

The old lady saw him from the window, cantering 
along the almost obliterated driveway, and by the time 
he had dismounted and tied his horse to an old apple 
tree, she was standing in the doorway, in the attitude 
of a tenant insolvent but unbowed. 

‘‘Good day!” she said. ‘'Step in, Mr. Petersen!” 

So once again he went into that parlour, dim and 
cool, aged and forlorn like herself, and once more sat 
down to wait for the cookies and the lemonade which he 
detested. 

But this time it was not the old lady who brought 
them in. It was Minnie. Minnie, until that instant un- 
known to him, unimagined, but predestined to his 

ruin. . . . 


II 

He was, innocently enough, pleased with her appear- 
ance, and saw nothing sinister, nothing extraordinary 
about her. A rather short, full-bosomed young woman 
of perhaps twenty, with a dark, freckled face and an 
expression very pleasant and friendly. She smiled at 
him as soon as she entered. 

“Mrs. Defoe will be back in a minute,” she said, as 
she set down her tray. She was wearing a rufHed little 
apron tied about her neat waist, and her air was alto- 
gether housewifely and homely, as if she had been 
brought up from infancy in that very house. He couldn’t 
imagine who she was. He knew that the old lady lived 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


H 

alone, had lived alone since the death of her husband 
twelve years ago. This agreeable young person was cer- 
tainly not a servant, and he was sure she didn’t belong 
in the neighbourhood. If he had seen her, he knew he 
would have remembered her. 

She gave him a glass of lemonade and sat down op- 
posite him, amiably prepared to entertain him. 

“It’s growing warm, isn’t it?” she said, and he recog- 
nised in her voice and accent something far superior to 
the native language of Brownsville Landing. 

“It’s what we want, for the fruit,” he answered, in 
his sing-song drawl. “It was a cold Spring here.” 

“So I’ve heard. . . . What a nice horse ! Is it yours, 
Mr. Petersen?” 

He was very much pleased; he said it was, and went 
on to tell of the virtues and eccentricities of his beloved 
mare. 

Minnie said she didn’t ride, but was very fond of 
driving. 

Riding suited Mr. Petersen better; it made one feel 
more independent. 

“Oh, well, you’re a manl” said she. “A girl can’t go 
riding about alone, very well.” 

In some way this made him suddenly conscious of her 
smallness and feminineness and of all the handicaps im- 
posed upon her by God and by man. Mr. Petersen’s 
views about women were definite. She was neither 
above nor below, neither hallowed nor accursed, but a 
quite ordinary human being, like himself, equally re- 
sponsible, equally privileged. A woman — the right sort 
— was a friend, simply. And he saw in Minnie a friend, 
candid and good-tempered. . . . (Minnie a friend!) 

“I was SO pleased” she went on, “to find a horse here. 
Of course, I don’t really know much about them. I’ve 
never lived in the country, really. But I love animals. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 15 

All animals. And I think I have a sort of knack with 
them ’’ 

He was acquainted with Mrs. Defoe’s horse, a 
ridiculously coy old skeleton that came into the village 
once a week harnessed to a buggy and driven by a Negro 
truck farmer who cultivated the old lady’s arid fields 
on shares. He could not imagine anyone’s having much 
affection for that caricature. It touched him. He could 
think of nothing to say, and the young woman had once 
more to start up a conversation. 

‘'I hope I haven’t made your lemonade too sweet!” 
she began, anxiously, but was interrupted by Mrs. Defoe 
calling from upstairs. 

‘‘Minnie ! Minnie I” 

“Excuse me,” she murmured, and vanished. He heard 
her running up the stairs, then not another sound for a 
long time. He sat still, with his glass in his hand, and 
waited. 

She didn’t run down; she came slowly, with obvious 
reluctance. 

“I’m very sorry,” she said, “but — Mrs. Defoe wants 
to know — if you’d be good enough to — wait just a little 
longer ” 

She was very much distressed; said something about 
preserves and next week and the expensiveness of jelly 
glasses. Mr. Petersen’s face turned still redder. 

“Pshaw!” he said, awkwardly, “It doesn’t matter to 
me. I can wait any length of time. Don’t worry. Tell 
Mrs. Defoe not to worry. I — perhaps she will send a 
message when she’s ready ” 

*Tositively next Tuesday,” said Minnie, firmly. “And 
I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Petersen. I appreciate your 
kindness.” 

She held out a small plump hand which he grasped 
earnestly. 


1 6 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

‘^But just the same, who is she?’’ he asked himself as 
he rode away. 


Ill 

He went home to his house on a shady street of the 
village, and strolled into the kitchen where his house- 
keeper was cooking a rabbit. 

‘‘Mrs. Hansen,” he said, ‘Vho’s that up at Mrs. 
Defoe’s?” 

Of course she knew. 

“Her granddaughter, Mr. Petersen. Two of them,” 
she answered, eagerly, delighted at being questioned. 
“They came from New York a week ago. Two young 
orphans. Just lost their father. He was thought to- 
be rich, but it seems he wasn’t. He didn’t leave them a 
penny. And they’ve been brought up to expect the best 
of everything, so I’ve heard. It’s sad, isn’t it, Mr. 
Petersen ?” 

He thought it was; the phrase “two young orphans”^ 
stuck in his mind, and while he walked about his garden, 
inspecting his trees and vegetables, he reflected on it. 
“Young orphans.” He remembered that she had been 
wearing a black dress, and that the ribbons in her little 
apron had been black. And there had been a sobriety 
in her bearing. . . . 

Mrs. Hansen wished to pursue the subject. She be- 
gan when she had put his excellent dinner on the table. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Petersen,” she said — he wouldn’t 
allow “sir” — “But which of the young ladies did you 
see? I hear that one of them is very handsome.” 

He reflected. No, Minnie was not very handsome; 
nice looking, and with fine dark eyes, but not handsome. 

He smiled a little. 

“It’s hard to say. I’m not a judge, Mrs. Hansen. 
The one I saw was dark ” 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


17 

“They’re both dark. But one’s ” 

“This rabbit stew is very good, Mrs. Hansen,” he 
interposed, and she took the hint and left him to read 
the local paper in peace, as was his custom during din- 
ner. 

Afterwards he went out to sit on his little porch and 
smoke. And thought very kindly of the “young orphan,” 
who hadn’t a penny. 

The least he could do, he decided, was not to trouble 
them about the rent — a decision which suited them, ap- 
parently, for he neither saw nor heard anything of the 
Defoe family for a long time. In fact, until he was 
needed by one of them. 


CHAPTER TWO 


I 

Two years previously Mr. Petersen had arrived in 
Brownsville Landing and had rented an office in the most 
up-to-date building there was, putting up a modest sign, 
^‘Christian Petersen, Lawyer.’’ The other lawyers, who 
announced themselves LL.D’s, laughed at his sign, but all 
the same, in spite of it, or perhaps because of its old- 
fashioned simplicity, he attracted clients from the be- 
ginning. People liked him; he was careful, polite and 
he knew his business. Although a foreigner, he was not 
offensively eccentric or ridiculous. There were one or 
two little things, such as riding a saddle horse, and wear- 
ing breeches and leggins, which were not approved of, 
nor was his polite avoidance of any social relations. Still, 
he was always friendly and antagonised mo one. 

After six months of legal practice, he branched out 
unexpectedly. A new sign appeared under the old one : 
^‘Real Estate.” Now he began making money in 
earnest. The town was growing, new factories were 
building, and he knew how to take advantage of the 
growth. 

It was a horrible, squalid little town, too near the city 
for any but the pettiest of retail trade to flourish, too far 
for any influence of urbanity. It was technically on 
the Hudson River, but as a matter of fact, the river 
bank was used exclusively for commercial purposes, 
freight yards and so on, and the town itself lay in a 
little hollow, which was stiflingly hot all summer long. 

i8 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 19 

There were the old people, whose families had lived 
there for generations, who had old Colonial houses and 
furniture; they looked with alarm and hostility upon 
the new element, the workers in the mills, the factories, 
the brick yards, this foreign-born, incomprehensible 
rabble, which was, nevertheless, the life blood of the 
town, which sustained three savings banks and fourteen 
saloons, which lay dead drunk by the roadsides, and 
crowded the public library. Then there were “new peo- 
ple,’^ factory managers, and their like, who were re- 
spectable and well-to-do, but not ''quite^' . . . And with 
all these people Mr. Petersen was perfectly at home, buy- 
ing, selling, renting, and arranging for them all. 

Before long a third sign appeared: “Contractor.^' 
And in this capacity he had perhaps his greatest suc- 
cess. He began with the building of some little cot- 
tages for the workers in a cotton mill, and he was so 
excellent and painstaking and experienced a supervisor 
that his fame spread rapidly. He explained with sim- 
plicity that as a boy in the “old country’' he had been 
apprenticed to a builder. And although a lawyer, he 
was not at all ashamed of this; he was, on the contrary, 
quite proud of his thorough knowledge of the trade. 

He was a Swede, son of a poor man, and self-educated, 
but there were few people in the town who spoke Eng- 
lish as well as he did, in spite of a singing drawl and 
an indefinably exotic note. 


II 

He was sitting, this summer morning, at his desk, 
in his shirt-sleeves, reading a contract with twofold at- 
tention, once as a lawyer, once as a builder. His door 
was open, and when someone knocked, he called out, 
“Come in!” without turning his head. He expected to 
be spoken to, and when he wasn’t, he looked up to see 


20 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


who could be there, waiting in silence. And saw a most 
splendid young creature, tall, broad-shouldered, with a 
healthy sunburned face of vivid colouring and severely 
perfect features, eager, vigorous, yet full of a fine young 
dignity. 

He rose at once and put on his coat. 

‘What can I do for you?” he asked, with his invariable 
politeness. 

The girl’s brown face flushed, but she answered with- 
out hesitation. 

‘T’m Frances Defoe — Mrs. Defoe’s granddaughter, 
you know. My sister told me how nice you’d been about 
— Grandma and the rent, so I thought perhaps you’d 
be good enough to — oh, to give me a little advice.” 

“Please sit down,” he said cheerfully. “Now!” 

“I want something to do, work of some sort. I heard 
that you were the most progressive man in the village, 
so I thought you’d be the best one to consult.” 

He was pleased and embarrassed by the compliment, 
which he knew to be merited. 

“I don’t suppose,” she went on, in her clear, somewhat 
imperious voice, “that there’s much opportunity here, 
is there?” 

He had found opportunities enough ; still he answered, 
no, not many, but that perhaps 

“Have you had any sort of experience?” he asked. 

She said no ; but that she’d studied a lot and was good 
at mathematics and figures in general, and knew some- 
thing of French and German. 

“And I can type a little,” she added. “I used to do 
my essays and things on a typewriter at college.” 

“Fine!” said Mr. Petersen. “Now, let’s see where 
that would fit in.” 

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, 
thinking in his slow and prudent fashion. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


21 


At last he brought his glance back to the girl. 

you’d care for it,” he remarked, “there’s an open- 
ing here. I need a young lady to help me, to be in the 
office while I’m out, to answer the telephone and so 
forth. It’s not much of a place — not more than eight 
dollars a week to begin ” 

He paused. 

“If it would suit you ” 

“Oh, yes!” she cried. “If you think I’d doT 

He smiled; he had sufficient imagination to compre- 
hend the thrill of a first job. 

“Suppose we try then,” he said. “Let’s see. . . . 
This is Friday. Next Monday at nine. Miss Defoe.” 

She gave him a bright, a grateful smile, and got up, 
ready to go. 

“I’m awfully glad to get such a chance,” she said. 
“I hope I’ll be satisfactory.” 

Mr. Petersen also rose. 

“Mrs. Defoe quite well ?” he enquired. 

“Yes; at least she says so. She never complains.” 

“And — I believe it was your sister I spoke to ” 

“Minnie ? Oh, she’s always well,” she answered, care- 
lessly, and with still another glowing smile, went off, 
elated. 

Undoubtedly she was the handsome one — a striking 
figure. But somehow, for him, at any rate, lacking the 
peculiar charm of her plainer sister; that sober and 
matronly young creature in the little apron. 

He felt a most Quixotic interest in both of the “young 
orphans.” He would have done a very great deal for 
them. In fact, he did. . . . 


Ill 

He was surprised and disappointed when she didn’t 
appear on Monday morning. At half past ten he gave 


22 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


her up and went out about some business, reflecting 
upon the instability of women. He came back in half 
an hour, and had just sat down at his desk when she 
entered, terribly flushed and dusty. Her expression was 
defiant, but her voice suspiciously uncertain. 

“I’m very sorry to be so late,” she said. “It won’t 
happen again. I had to walk, and I missed the way. 
But I’ll arrange better after this.” 

To hide his own distress and hers, he promptly gave 
her something to type — he didn’t care what — and sat 
down at his own desk, where he pretended to work. But 
he knem, without venturing to turn his head, that she 
was stealthily wiping her eyes, and he was sure there 
had been some serious trouble at home. A five-mile walk 
along that dusty road, on an August day I Poor girl ! 

There had indeed been a classic and unforgettable en- 
counter, ending in a drawn battle. She couldn’t get it 
out of her head, no matter how she tried to concen- 
trate her attention on this new work. 

In the first place, her sister and her grandmother had 
both protested passionately against her plan as soon as 
they heard of it. She had gone home triumphantly to 
tell them that she had a “job” at eight dollars a week, 
in Mr. Petersen’s office. 

“Why, child!” cried the old lady, affronted. “What 
an idea 1” 

She was really shocked. A Defoe working for a 
Petersen ! 

Minnie, too, was shocked; they both argued, reasoned 
and expostulated, but to no avail. Then Minnie, to the 
point : 

“How do you expect to get there, Frankie?” 

Her sister was slightly crestfallen. 

“I thought you’d drive me in,” she admitted, “I’d pay 
you for it.” 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


23 


‘Thank you!” said Minnie, coldly. “But I couldn’t 
possibly. At that time in the morning, with all the 
work to be done.” 

“Very well,” said Frankie, “I’ll walk.” 

She was confident that when the time came, Minnie 
would yield, Minnie who was so kind-hearted, so self- 
sacrificing. And she couldn’t believe it when Monday 
morning actually came, and she remained obdurate. 

“I said I wouldn’t, and I won't/' she repeated. “I 
don’t approve of your working for that man, and I cer- 
tainly shan’t help you in any way.” 

Frances had no idea how to harness the horse; she 
was at her sister’s mercy, absolutely. 

“Minnie, don’t be such a beast! And a prig. You’re 
not my nurse, you know. I’m old enough to decide for 
myself.” 

“Decide everything you like,” Minnie replied, “but I 
shan’t help you in such a nasty, undignified affair. I 
can’t stop you. Why don’t you walk? You said you 
would.” 

Frances looked at her with blazing scorn. 

“You darned little hypocrite!” she cried. “Very well, 
I zmll walk, if it takes me all day.” 

She wasn’t even sure of the way. She strode doggedly 
along in the dust and the scorching sun, furious and 
defiant, for more than two hours. 

“I’ll walk back and forth every day,” she said to her- 
self, “if it kills me. I won’t give in to her. She always 
gets her own way. Not this time, though. I’ll wait till 
I get my first pay, and then I’ll hire someone. I won’t 
give up this job !” 

Twelve o’clock came. 

“You’re a stranger here,” said Mr. Petersen, “perhaps 
you don’t know where to go for lunch. If you’d do me 
the honour, this first day ” 


24 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


She was not quite sure what was the proper course 
for a business woman, but she knew that Mr. Petersen 
was absolutely ‘‘all right,” and to be trusted, so she ac- 
cepted, and went up the street to the Eagle House with 
him. 

The Eagle House was a fly-blown and extraordinarily 
dingy hotel patronised by travelling salesmen; the food 
was horrible but the atmosphere impeccably respectable. 
Frances was delighted with it. Never before had she 
felt so adult, so independent. She was sure that Mr. 
Petersen took her seriously, judged her upon her merits 
as an individual and not as a Defoe or as a young girl 
— not as a female at all. She liked him! She remem- 
bered what Minnie had said about him and rejected it all. 
‘‘Common,” “presumptuous,” “thick-skinned”; snobbish 
nonsense, all that! 

They walked back to the office and spent a very agree- 
able afternoon there. He explained the work to her, 
and was pleased by the quickness with which she grasped 
his explanations. He saw that she would soon be really 
very useful. She was not only intelligent and ambitious, 
but she had that remarkable feminine loyalty, that will- 
ingness to use all her powers in behalf of some one else, 
that is the curse and the glory of her sex. She never 
viewed Mr. Petersen as an ambitious young man would 
have done, as a stepping stone in her own career; she 
was genuinely concerned with how she could help Mr. 
Petersen with Mr. Petersen’s business. 

Five o’clock came very soon, she thought. Mr. Peter- 
sen looked at the clock and closed his desk. 

“Closing time!” he said cheerfully, “I hope your first 
day in business hasn’t — ^ — ” 

He stopped short because her face had changed so 
suddenly. She turned pale as he was speaking. 

“Oh!” she said, with a gasp. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


25 

‘‘What’s the matter?” he asked, anxiously. “Are you 
ill?” 

“No — only — I’d forgotten. . . . Is there a short cut ?” 

Even her fine courage faltered at the prospect of once 
more walking those five dusty miles; it really appalled 
her. Yet, with a quite empty pocketbook, what could 
she do? 

“A short cut?” he repeated, puzzled. “But — you don’t 
mean to say you expect to walk home?” 

“I’ve got to!” 

“Wait a bit! . . . I’ve a nice little trap in my stable. 
I’ll be back in ten minutes to fetch you. No; I shan’t 
listen to you. It’s out of the question, walking back.” 

She was so relieved. She climbed into his nice little 
trap, behind his brisk little mare and they set off smartly. 
Of course, Mr. Petersen did look undeniably like a coach- 
man, with his back like a ramrod and his red neck and 
his huge hands holding the reins so very correctly. . . . 
But what does it matter? “He’s a gentleman, if there 
ever was one,” she told herself. “He’s a dear!” 

They had not gone half the distance, when . whom 
should they meet but Minnie, in the ramshackle bugg}% 
with the silly old horse. Her eyes were red and her ex- 
pression uncertain. 

“Frankie!” she cried, “I’ve been so worried! Come 
right in here!” 

She smiled a wan greeting at Mr. Petersen. 

“I didn’t think she’d really do it,” she said. “I thought 
she’d turn back. And when I realised that she’d really 
gone, all that long way You poor old Frankie!” 

With her sister established by her side, she turned 
again to Mr. Petersen. 

“Well!” she said. “We’ll have to give in. And let 
her go. No matter how much we miss her.” 

Which gave him the impression that the objection to 


26 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


Frankie’s enterprise was solely one of sentiment. An 
impression altogether false, but then, he didn’t really 
know any of the Defoes or their principles. It never 
occurred to him that it was disgraceful and shameful to 
work in his office. 

He looked after the sisters with a kindliness which 
had now become almost affection, and he thought what 
a loving, unreasonable little soul Minnie was. Couldn’t 
bear her sister out of her sight! A thorough woman, 
she was! 


CHAPTER THREE 


I 

It was Frances who was usually considered the snob 
of the family, for Frances was imperious and inclined 
to be haughty, and had a sense of her personal dignity. 
But, as a matter of fact, she was as little snobbish as 
one so brought up could well be. She respected herself 
but she respected others. She was devilishly proud, but 
she permitted pride in others. She was capable of ad- 
miring worth wherever found and was quite honest about 
it. She really did not stand upon her Defoeness. She 
had, it must be admitted, a fair share of young conceit; 
she believed herself to be handsome and intelligent and 
resolute, and these were her claims upon the world’s re- 
gard. Whereas Minnie, far more humble as an in- 
dividual, demanded a slavish servility from the majority 
of mankind simply because she was what she called a 
“gentlewoman.” It entailed no obligations, required no 
effort. One was, or one wasn’t. Like being born a 
sacred white bull. It was an involuntary sanctity which 
all right-minded people of the lower orders could in- 
stantly recognise. 

Her grandmother thought as she did. Between them 
they ordained that Mr. Petersen did not exist, and they 
had tried in vain to convince Frankie of it. She had 
been very, very trying! 

The two sisters drove on in a rather constrained silence 
after the bone of contention had gone. Minnie was ab- 
sorbed in the management of the capricious skeleton, but 
27 


28 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


was still able to suggest a forgiveness that irritated Fran- 
ces. And Frances couldn’t quite stifle her remorse. She 
remembered dreadful things she had said to Minnie that 
morning. Things which had evidently made her weep. 

All on account of Mr. Petersen; because he was so 
utterly unworthy of being served by one of the Brahmin 
caste. How vain their prayers and tears. She had suf- 
fered too much from that life without hope or sym- 
pathy. She knew that they could not comprehend her 
pain, and she could not endure attempting to explain. 
She knew that Mr. Petersen had saved her from despair. 

She looked at Minnie’s obstinate, tear-stained face, and 
was filled with a great regret and a sort of loneliness. 

‘‘Oh, Minnie!” she cried. “Do try to understand a 
little! Don’t you see that I couldn’t bear a life like 
this?” 

“There’s no use talking about it. Only, Frankie, don’t 
imagine it hasn’t been hard for me,” she answered. 
“After all, I suppose I am a human being.” 

“I know it, darling. I’m awfully sorry for you!” 
Frances assured her contritely. 

Minnie had a not very admirable trait of always press- 
ing an advantage. 

“In a way,” she went on, “I feel it more. I was 
home so much more — with him/' 

Her eyes filled with tears; her thoughts flew back to 
that day, six weeks ago. . . . 

II 

She was sitting alone in the studio, copying a cast 
of a child’s foot with great care. She had expressed a 
ladylike desire to “learn drawing” and her father had 
willingly consented, and arranged for private lessons, 
which she took in the afternoon, when the other girls 
had gone home. She was a bitter cross to her teacher. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


29 

for not only was she quite without aptitude, but she 
likewise had no taste and no spirit. She couldn’t be 
fired. She wished to “learn drawing^’ simply; art and 
beauty had nothing to do with it. An artist, to Minnie, 
was a person who could so present things that you 
recognised them on paper. She was often pleased with 
her own drawings. 

According to her habit, the young teacher had gone 
out of the room. Minnie was perfectly contented to 
be alone, to potter away with those exasperating fine 
little lines. She couldn’t be taught, anyway; it was of 
no use even to criticise. She had accepted what was 
told her about tacking paper on a board, about the me- 
chanical uses of charcoal and fixative and so forth, and 
after that wished to go ahead in her own way, simply 
drawing. Nothing more to it. She sat before her easel 
very straight and serious. She was really absorbed in 
her messy little drawing; she thought it was “sweet,” 
and contemplated giving it to her father, nicely framed, 
as a Christmas present. He was sure to admire any- 
thing she did. 

The big room was absolutely silent, peopled with 
ghostly white casts, heads, limbs, entire figures, lighted 
coldly from a skylight, so that she seemed in a world 
quite different from the brilliant autumn outside. Calm, 
quiet, satisfied, in the midst of an extraordinary peace — 
a peace which had surrounded her all her short years. 

And which ended forever that day. She heard the 
footsteps of the teacher coming back along the corridor, 
more quickly than usual. 

“Minnie, dear,” she said, “Miss Leland wishes to see 
you.” 

This surprised Minnie mildly. With her usual docility 
she got up, put her charcoal in its little box, and hurried 
down the corridor, past all the rooms familiar to her 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


30 

for nearly ten years, rooms all empty now, with rows 
and rows of chairs and desks, with their blackboards 
and charts and maps, well known to her and more or 
less dear. She had been graduated from the school a 
year ago, and was now, of course, beyond all that and 
superior to it, but she enjoyed coming back for these 
drawing lessons. She clung to familiar places. 

Down the stairs, three flights, and to the comfortable 
little study of the principal. Minnie had no reproof to 
dread, she was and had always been beyond reproach in 
everything, a model girl. She tapped on the door and 
was bidden to enter. 

As soon as she saw her cousin there, she knew some^ 
thing was wrong. A great dread came over her. She 
didn’t look at Miss Leland at all. 

“What is it. Cousin Ella?” she asked, sharply. 

The forlorn spinster, who had years ago technically 
replaced their mother, suddenly burst into tears. 

“My poor child!” she cried, “My poor child!” 

She had come, trembling with dread and grief, pre- 
pared to “break” it to Minnie in a merciful way. But 
couldn’t endure the sight of the unsuspecting orphan. 

“Minnie!” she sobbed. “Your poor father ” 

Minnie had turned very pale. 

“Hurry up!” she cried. “Is he — dead?” 

Cousin Ella told her in a confused and broken way. 
A cable had come to tell of his death from pneumonia 
in Liverpool, the very day he had landed. 

“I came to you at once” she said. “The very instant 
I had read it.” 

That was her duty, of course. News of death must 
be spread without delay. She had driven off immediately 
to intercept Minnie, so that she should learn of it at least 
an hour sooner than if she had come home in the usual 
way. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 31 

Minnie was stunned and incredulous. Cousin Ella al- 
ways got things mixed, anyway. 

‘‘Let’s see the cable!” she demanded. 

Cousin Ella answered, with a shade of resentment, 
that she hadn’t brought it. 

In a horrible nightmare daze, Minnie followed her to 
the carriage. It was not sorrow she felt, but dr^ad ; as 
if the catastrophe instead of having taken place already, 
were about to happen, were imminent. They drove along 
the familiar suburban roads, lined with charming houses, 
smooth lawns without fence or hedge, great trees, a 
domain prosperous, lovely and serene. They reached 
home, a grey stone house on a hill, planted with dwarf 
evergreens; they went in. Nothing in any way changed, 
the same well-ordered, comfortable dignity. It couldn’t 
be true! Father never coming back? 

She again demanded the cable, and obtained it. 

*'Mr, Defoe died this morning. Pneumonia. 

Seven o'clock. Writing. Johnson.” 

So it wasn’t a mistake. She looked round instinctively 
for support, for reassurance, in her terror. 

“Oh, father !” she cried, in a sort of shriek. “Cousin 
Ella! Oh ... Do something! Don’t let it be!” 

In that instant, the very essence of her father’s pul 
was comprehended by her; she could realise him, all 
his fondness, his immeasurable indulgence for her. She 
saw what she had lost, and was overwhelmed. It was 
the end of her childhood, the last wholly genuine, wholly 
disinterested emotion she was ever to feel. 

Ill 

He had been a “business man,” engaged in a very 
vague business — promoting schemes and so on. He had 
spent money lavishly on his adored daughters, and when 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


32 

he was at home, in the intervals between mysterious 
trips, he liked to talk to them about their future, and 
ask them what they wanted him to do for them. Poor 
devil! Evidently he expected to live forever, for he 
had made no provision at all for them, not even life in- 
surance. There was not a penny. 

Frances had been at college just a month when she 
was recalled. The lawyer had gone out to break the 
news to her of her father’s death and her own destitu- 
tion, and it must be admitted that she had behaved very 
badly. At first she refused absolutely to come home. 
She said she would go on, no matter what happened; 
she’d work her way through college; lots of girls did. 
She had made up her mind to become a doctor, and she 
wasn’t going to be stopped now, at the very start. The 
lawyer pointed out that as this plan demanded quite 
eight years of study, she might well spare a day or two 
now to attend to her poor sister. So she consented, 
though she felt in her heart that it was the end. She 
went, but she was markedly sullen. 

Sober little Minnie, tired out with crying, reproved 
her. 

“Can’t you think of something else beside yourself, 
Frankie ?” she asked. 

Frankie was abashed. She had an unbounded ad- 
miration for Minnie’s moral worth; the very fact of 
her being smaller, plainer and stupider than she was, 
was somehow proof of it. She really made an effort to 
look upon her ambition as selfish and petty and to con- 
centrate her eager and vigorous mind solely on her 
father’s death. 

Minnie had no ambition to give up. She supposed that 
in the course of time she would marry, and that would 
suffice. She was not able to show much sympathy for 
her sister’s intolerable disappointment. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


33 

“I know it’s hard to leave college and all that/’ she 
said. “But after all, Frankie, I don’t think you’d have 
stuck it out for eight years. You wouldn’t have liked 
being a doctor, when the time came. Such a queer thing 
for a girl.” 

“Nonsense!” cried Frances, angrily, “you have the 
stupidest, most antiquated ideas!” 

“I’ll work my way through,” she went on, “I’ll be a 
waitress or something. But I won't give up!” 

Minnie began to cry. 

“Please, Frankie, stay with me a little while,” she en- 
treated. “I’m so lonely!” 

Who could refuse? 


IV 

Cousin Ella advised them to accept the offer of their 
grandmother, their father’s mother. She was the only 
living soul who wanted them, anyway. 

Frankie protested. 

“Brownsville Landing !” she cried. “Oh, Cousin Ella ! 
It’s the worst place!” 

She remembered visits there in the summer holidays, 
the boredom of it, the ugliness. But Minnie assured her 
that it would only be temporary, while they looked about 
and made their plans. She brought forward the sensible- 
ness of it, made Frances feel how rash and headstrong 
it would be not to go. 

She had her way, as she always did. The house was 
closed, the furniture sold, the servants dismissed. After 
a curious fortnight in a boarding house nearby, where 
their friends came to say good-by, they went off^ with 
all their effects in two modest trunks. 

Early in the afternoon they reached Brownsville 
Landing. 

Even grief could not blind them to the fact that they 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


34 

were interesting figures — two young orphans. They 
were aware that every one of the idlers in the station 
knew who they were and where they were going. They 
followed Thomas Washington to the battered old surrey 
and sat down, perfectly decorous, without turning their 
heads, conscious nevertheless of being regarded with 
sympathy, with speculation. 

They were tacitly agreed that it would not be correct 
to talk; in silence and concealing all trace of curiosity 
they went rattling off up Main Street and along the 
dusty five-mile road to the farm. 

Their grandmother was waiting for them in terror. 
How to console them? Their loss seemed to her so ter- 
rible, so desolating. She could with truth say nothing 
better than — ‘‘You are utterly ruined and alone in the 
world, friendless and penniless.” She watched the car- 
riage coming, with the girls side by side, images of de- 
cent grief, perfectly restrained; then, when the carriage 
stopped, the restraint vanished, and they rushed into her 
arms, sobbing. 

She led them into the darkened parlour, and sat down 
on the sofa between them, trying in a trembling voice to 
comfort them with religion and proverbs, inextricably 
mixed. But Frankie was not in any way to be quieted. 
She wept so violently, so passionately that the old lady 
could think of nothing better to do than to lead her up- 
stairs and urge her to lie down. 

“There! There 1” she murmured. “What can Grand- 
ma do for you?” 

She answered, in a muffled voice, her head buried in 
the pillows: 

“Please — let me alone ... a little while.” 

“I think we’d better,” whispered Minnie, and they 
went out, carefully closing the door upon Frankie’s 
weeping. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


35 

The first glimpse of the farm had overwhelmed her 
completely. She remembered the college, august, beauti- 
ful, with the orderly and purposeful life that so appealed 
to her, she thought of her old home, as it would look 
now, in the late afternoon sunshine, of its dignity and 
freedom, the hope she had known there. And then this, 
this shabby, forlorn old house standing alone in a weed- 
grown straggling garden, surrounded by the neglected 
fields, which stretched away to the cold and unknown 
blue hills. All that she hated most, solitude, stagnation,, 
neglect. 

V 

The old lady turned with relief to Minnie, who was 
so much more amenable. She led her down into the 
kitchen where she had been cooking her choicest dishes 
for the orphans, gave her milk to drink and fresh cake 
to eat, and watched her with melancholy in whf6h there 
was considerable satisfaction. So absolutely what it 
should be was Minnie’s attitude. She was worn and 
tired, her eyes reddened with crying, all of which ren- 
dered so touching her pleasantness and politeness, her 
willingness to answer questions. A womanly little soul, 
altogether. The old lady fancied she saw in her the 
amiable and domestic creature desired by all old people, 
the consolation of her age; youth with none of youth’s 
disadvantages, the sedateness, the responsibility of ma- 
turity with the vigour and charm proper to her twenty 
years. She acclaimed Minnie a paragon, a Phoenix 
among maidens. 

Minnie herself began to feel comforted. The quiet 
kitchen in the last brightness of the Spring day, with 
the dinner pots and pans hissing on the stove and a pleas- 
ant fragrance of freshly baked bread and cake in the air, 
all the homeliness and friendly peace about her assuaged 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


36 

her grief, strengthened her soul. Her thoughts began 
to turn to the future^ — she tried to imagine a possible 
life there. 

“Do you still live here all alone, Grandma?’’ she 
asked. 

The old lady sighed. Poor creature! When she al- 
lowed herself to think of it, she wondered how she suc- 
ceeded in living at all. 

Her husband had been one of those happy and lavish 
persons who obtain, Heaven knows how, a reputation for 
wealth. He had always had plenty of money to spend, 
and everything he or his family needed, but it was, un- 
fortunately, a sort of Fortunatus’ purse, into which he 
could dip without limit, but which couldn’t be bequeathed, 
which for everyone else lay flat and empty. 

At least he had insured his life, and his widow re- 
ceived a monthly income of twenty-five dollars from this 
— her sole income. An impossible situation. How she 
struggled along, no one knew, not even herself. Although 
struggle is not the word; she didn’t struggle; she simply 
went on existing, miraculously sustained by the forbear- 
ance of others. It was impossible to turn the poor crea- 
ture out, rent or no rent, or to refuse her credit for food, 
in this town where she had lived for sixty years. She 
“managed.” When she couldn’t pay, she didn’t pay. Her 
quite simple rule was to give cash when compelled, and 
to commandeer the rest of her necessities. She didn’t 
worry very much over her debts. She had a phrase 
which satisfied her completely. “You can’t draw blood 
from a stone,” she would say. 

Her son had sent her money now and then, but very 
little. He had not been a good son; 'his father over 
again,’ she often reflected, 'out of sight, out of mind.’ 
A present at Christmas time, or when the girls came to 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


37 

visit. He never asked her how she managed, because he 
didn’t want to know. 

And here were the girls left as she had been left. . . . 
Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at Minnie. 

‘"Yes, Pve been a lonely old woman,” she said, ‘'but I 
hope I shan’t be any more.” 

Minnie kissed her soberly. 

"No, Grandma, dear,” she said. "We won’t leave you 
again.” ) 

"Where else could we go, anyway?” she added to her- 
self, in her practical way. 


CHAPTER FOUR 


I 

Frances had waked up early that first morning. She 
looked round the big, low-ceilinged room, at the pictures 
on the walls, sheep in a snowstorm, ships at sea, re- 
ligious maidens, hung with a sole aim of covering up 
the most badly stained places in the faded paper, at the 
white iron wash stand, the lame chest of drawers on 
which stood a quite unrelated and unattached mirror, 
the dusty strips of old carpets serving as rugs, at all 
the dinginess and shabbiness and deserted old age, and 
in a sort of frenzy, she began to shake Minnie. 

Minnie opened her black eyes. 

“Well!” she said, sleepy but good-humoured. 

“Minnie, isn’t this awfulT 

“The same as it always was,” she replied, slowly, “and 
it seems to me we can be pretty useful here.” 

Frances frowned. 

“To Grandma? Of course. . . . Only, isn’t it sense- 
less for two healthy young women to spend their time 
looking after one old lady?” 

“I shouldn’t call it senseless.” 

“I could help much more by earning money and send- 
ing it to her,” said Frances. 

“You don’t have to decide all that now/^ Minnie re- 
turned, rather severely. “You can give yourself a week 
or so to rest — after what’s happened.” 

Frankie said no more, but remained unconvinced. 
She made up her mind she wouldn't stay on that farm 
— not for a week. 


38 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


39 

Poor Frankie! Doomed to stay there for how many 
weeks ! 

She tried in vain to think of some means of getting 
away. At first there were a dozen radiant vistas, pos- 
sibilities of all sorts. She contemplated becoming a 
secretary, a writer, a doctor's assistant, a teacher, or, as 
a last resort, the wife of an extraordinary man. It was 
a long time before she could realise of how little value 
she was, how undesired. She hadn’t even money for 
her fare to New York, and her answers to advertise- 
ments found in the city papers were always late and 
never regarded. She was amazed to find herself in this 
blind alley: her eager hands groped for some sort of out- 
let; she couldn’t believe that she was actually obliged to 
stay in Brownsville Landing. 

It cannot be denied that she was a trial to the other 
two. She shirked her share of the housework and re- 
mained obstinately shut up in her room with her old 
school books. And every time they drove into the vil- 
lage she insisted upon stopping at the Carnegie Library 
and exchanging piles of books, keeping Minnie waiting 
an outrageous length of time. Minnie and her grand- 
mother had each to take out cards so that she could get 
as many books as she could carry. 

She used to cry, too, at night, and tell Minnie she 
couldn’t stand it. Some days she was scornful and 
silent, scarcely saw them except at meal times; then re- 
morse would seize her and the next day she wouldn’t 
touch her books, but would work to the point of ex- 
haustion cleaning the house. When she did bend her 
mind to such humble tasks she far surpassed Minnie. 
She was quick, thoroughgoing, altogether competent, 
and, when she wasn’t cross, she was a delight to the 
others, gay, endearing, irresistible. 

They couldn’t understand, couldn’t see how her ardent 


40 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


spirit suffered. Her ambition, still so vague that she 
was not able to express it, was unintelligible to them. 
Sometimes she would confess to Minnie that she wanted 
to marry an explorer. 

‘‘Or someone like that. Someone awfully famous and 
yet not stuffy. Not anyone who sits down and works.” 

And perhaps that same day she would say vehemently 
that she didn’t care a bit about getting married, ever. 
She wanted to be something on her own account. There 
wasn’t much chance now that she could be a doctor, but 
there were plenty of other things, useful and interesting. 

Minnie often asked to be informed of the object of 
all the studying her sister did. 

“I don’t know, exactly,” Frances would tell her, 
“only it’s some comfort to think I’m not slipping back.” 

II 

Minnie fitted into that life as if she had been made 
for it. Serious, anxious, good-tempered, she followed 
her grandmother about, helping her, deeply interested 
in the daily work. She was not very clever or skilful, 
but she supplied the lack of these by a great willing- 
ness. She did not suffer from any passion for perfec- 
tion; she was satisfied if she could “get through” what 
was essential. 

She assumed responsibilities. She took it upon her- 
self to get up first and get the breakfast. Frances used 
to watch her, springing out of bed in the half-darkness 
directly the alarm clock rang, and beginning to dress 
without wasting time even to stretch. 

And not only was she invaluable within doors, but 
almost at once she had taken charge of the decrepit old 
mare lingering on in a filthy old barn. This had for- 
merly been Thomas Washington’s duty, but Minnie as- 
sured her grandmother that this arrangement was ex- 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


41 


travagant and that Thomas was rough. In a very few 
days she had learned from him all the essentials in the 
care of Bess, and herself assumed the work. 

She had a passionate, an exaggerated love for animals ; 
compassion rather than love; for every dumb creature 
she saw she felt a distressing pity and, of course, being 
Minnie, an anxious sense of responsibility. She was for- 
ever worried by the thought that some beast was being 
ill-used. She even went so far as to follow carters to 
make sure they weren’t cruel. She had repeated dis- 
agreements with her grandmother because the old lady 
wouldn’t allow Michael to usurp her chair. 

Michael and the other cats had at once become her 
special property. She put them into the cellar at night 
and first thing in the morning would unbolt the door 
and let them out, welcoming them with a smile maternal 
and solicitous. They were always waiting near the door, 
and would come jostling in at once, uttering impatient 
little cries, and looking up at her with luminous and 
plaintive eyes. She would bend over the worn and un- 
lovely Spotty, mother of uncounted drowned kittens, 
with kindly sympathy; her young son Teddy, who was 
still silly and charming, she treated with indulgence ; but 
for old Michael she had a manner at once motherly and 
propitiating. Michael, truculent old blackguard, his 
thick, short coat striped like a tiger, arrogant and com- 
placent as an old pirate chief! He never showed any 
affection, but a sort of shameless allegiance, knowing 
that from her came all his benefits. She was really very 
happy in this life. . . . 


Ill 

Providence was always on Minnie’s side, and Provi- 
dence, it would seem, was set firmly against Frankie’s 
worldly ambition to leave Brownsville Landing. 


42 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


The poor old lady fell ill; not at all suddenly, simply 
one day she asked Minnie to stop at the doctor’s on her 
way home from the village and, if possible, fetch him 
with her. He came, and remained shut up with the 
old lady a long time. When he came out of her room, 
he saw neither of the girls; he had to waste his valuable 
time seeking them. Minnie he discovered at last in the 
barn, preparing the old horse for her journey back with 
him, and she was so concerned about this, so insistent 
that the doctor should perfectly understand Besses 
delicacy and nervousness, that she forgot to ask about 
her grandmother. 

“She won’t pass a milk waggon,” she explained. 
“You’ll have to get out and lead her by if you happen to 
meet one. She’s ...” 

“I’ll look after your horse/' said the doctor. “It’s 
only a matter of six miles. I’ll send my man back with 
her as soon as he’s back from the blacksmith’s with my 
own. And now that your mind’s easy on that score, 
perhaps you’ll be interested to hear that your grand- 
mother’s in a bad state.” ‘ 

“Oh, what’s the matter!” she cried. 

“We’ll bring her round; don’t worry,” he replied 
evasively, “but it won’t be in a week, or in a month. 
She needs care and nursing. And you’ll have to see that 
she doesn’t go down the stairs,” he added. “She’s not 
to leave that floor for the present.” 

Minnie stopped long enough to see how he handled 
Bess, over that awful rut near the gate; then she flew 
upstairs. 

“Grandma !” she entreated, “do tell me what’s wrong!” 

But the old lady refused to discuss it. 

“Don’t fret, child,” she said. “I’ll do very well.” 

“But it worries me so dreadfully not to know.” 

The old lady remained firm. Some obscure sense of 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


43 


pride informed her that it was not fitting and proper 
to discuss the physical body with one’s grandchild. She 
would only admit that her heart was not as strong as it 
might be. . . . 

She didn’t seem particularly ill; she sat propped up 
in bed, knitting, quite cheerful. It did not occur to 
Minnie that the poor old thing was worn out, that the 
organism which had worked without ceasing for seventy- 
five years was in need of rest — eternal rest. 

She knocked vigorously on the bedroom door, which 
Frances insisted upon keeping locked. Frances let her 
in with a very bad grace, which she ignored. 

she said. ‘‘Now, we’re in for it. Poor 
Grandma’s sick and the doctor won’t allow her to go 
downstairs for months.” 

They discussed it soberly, Frankie lying flat on the 
bed, her hands under her head, Minnie sitting beside 
her. 

“We’ll simply have to do the best we can,” said 
Minnie. 

Frances agreed. 

“It’s dreadful for her,” she said, “when she’s always 
been so active.” 

IV 

Minnie at once instituted a new regime, under which 
her grandmother received the best possible care. She 
waited on her devotedly, spent all her scant leisure with 
her; was, as usual, faultless. 

At least, that was how she appeared to her sister. 
Frankie honestly could not see a fault in her. Except 
that she was sometimes a bit too diplomatic, too anxious 
to keep things pleasant. That is, she didn’t always tell 
the truth — exactly. . . . She was not at all abashed if 
she were found out; she had always the same reply. 


44 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


‘‘I thought it was for the best/’ 

The long, long days went by, all alike. At five o’clock 
the alarm clock rang. Minnie jumped up and closed the 
window, and lighted the lamp on the bureau while Fran- 
ces, pretending to be asleep, lay watching her. The lamp- 
light made a little bright spot in the big shadowy room, 
showing Minnie like an actress in the spotlight, only 
quite without self-consciousness, dressing herself quickly, 
wishing only to be neat. 

“I wish I weren’t a bit vain,” she would reflect. 
“Minnie’s so wonderful!” 

Then Minnie would go groping her way along the 
black corridor, stopping always outside the old lady’s 
door to listen to her breathing, and, after that, there 
was always a long interval of silence, before she could 
be heard, coming up the stairs, slowly and carefully, 
with the tray. 

She always opened the door of the darkened room 
quietly, so that she shouldn’t startle her grandmother, 
in spite of the fact that she invariably found the old 
lady wide awake. Then she went at once about the 
hated business of admitting a little light into the room 
with as little fresh air as possible. She had first to pull 
up the shade, which never would roll properly but had 
to be jerked up and down a number of times, then to 
unlock the window and prop it up with a stick while she 
struggled with the rusty catches and flung open the 
shutters. She set the tray by the bedside with the un- 
varying question: 

“How are you this morning. Grandma?” with a sort 
of professional cheerfulness. “Did you have a good 
night ?” 

“Very poor, my dear,” the old lady would usually 
reply. 

Minnie would say that she was very sorry, and after 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


45 

asking if there were anything else needed, would go on 
her way, not really at all sorry or disturbed. She had 
no idea what a ‘‘poor night” meant; she had never ex- 
perienced one, never tried to imagine one. All her 
grandmother’s ailments were remote, vague and without 
interest for her. Her sole concern was to do her duty. 

This done, she proceeded to wake Frances, and while 
she was dressing, got ready their own breakfast in the 
kitchen. Frances usually found her preparing an 
economical mixture of condensed milk and water for 
the cats, with old Michael standing at her side, looking 
up into her face, his pink mouth opening in a silent cry. 
The milk properly warmed, each animal bent its sleek 
little head over its familiar saucer, lapping steadily; now 
and then Michael looked up, licked his chops and seemed 
about to speak, then thought better of it and went on 
drinking. 

Minnie was not good company at breakfast time; she 
was too much preoccupied with plans for the day. She 
had the obnoxious air of a very busy person trying to 
be polite. Immediately she had finished she hurried off 
to the stable, or to the cottage of Thomas Washington 
across the road, or about some other of her varied un- 
dertakings. 

Thomas Washington was a highly respectable Negro 
who had begun life as “hired man” for their grandfather, 
but who had got on very well and was now a small 
farmer on his own account. He was always willing to 
assist Minnie with expert advice, but nothing further, 
unless it were to be suitably recompensed. Thrift had 
made him independent and comfortable; thrift he wor- 
shipped and practised, and it forbade him to do any- 
thing for nothing. The gratitude of a penniless Defoe 
was of no value to him, he didn’t care for it. Never- 
theless he was of the greatest use to Minnie, because he 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


46 

knew how to do everything and she being so very 
“handy’^ was able to learn from his explanations. From 
the bedroom window Frances used to see her talking to 
him over his gate, or watching him as he illustrated some 
point of carpentry with grave gestures, and come tramp- 
ing home again, in her shapeless old hat and a big apron, 
to work with noble cheerfulness. 

Not for anything on earth would she have admitted 
that this cheerfulness was genuine, that it sprang from 
her satisfaction at finding work within her power, for 
the first time. At school, at home with Frances, she 
had, in spite of her naive conceit, always been more or 
less conscious of inferiority, of being surpassed. Reso- 
lutely she covered this new satisfaction with a veil of 
martyrdom, made it a sort of reproach. She would never, 
never admit enjoying anything. Perhaps at the bottom 
of her queer little soul she was aware that the things she 
truly enjoyed were not altogether admirable — perhaps 
her spirit was appalled before her mind. Provided, of 
course, that she possessed a spirit. 

Mysteries forever unsolvable, these greedy, hypocrit- 
ical, obtuse little beings. Stupid, without sympathy, 
they none the less leave their impress on the whole world. 
They force us to believe that their blind and ruinous 
maternal passion — a perverted instinct — is a sacred and 
mystic thing; they hold up to us their animal jealousy 
of one man as “love” ; complacently they reveal this little 
beast, which one loves with rage and disgust, and can- 
not resist, and they call it Woman. And perhaps it is. 
Perhaps those others, with hearts, with brains, with souls, 
are not true women, only the freaks of nature. . . . 


CHAPTER FIVE 


I 

Minnie turned in at the gate, or rather, the gate posts, 
for there had been no gates for years. 

^T got a cold supper ready before I left,’^ she said. 
^‘Everything’s on the table. Don’t wait for me, Frankie; 
you must be terribly tired and hungry.” 

Frances was touched. 

“Minnie !” she said, “Really, you’re an angel !” 

Minnie smiled indulgently. 

“Silly old Frankie!” she said. 

Indulgence was all that Frankie could obtain. In vain 
she talked of the good she could do them, of how she 
would be able to help them as she got on better, of the 
value of the experience to be gained in Mr. Petersen’s 
office. Minnie and her grandmother persisted in regard- 
ing this work of hers as a rather selfish frivolity; they 
humoured her, but they were grieved. Frankie was made 
to see that Minnie had chosen the better and the harder 
part, that she at least held inexorably to duty. They 
passed an evening not at all pleasant. The gulf be- 
tween them was becoming more and more evident. 
Things were never quite the same again, after that first 
day at Mr. Petersen’s. 


II 

Unknown to the old lady, who would have been 
deeply shocked, Frankie and Minnie were in the parlour 
the next Sunday afternoon sewing, putting the final 
touches to a dress which Frankie was to wear in the 
47 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


48 

office next day. When, suddenly, as she happened to 
look up, Minnie saw Mr. Petersen riding up the drive, 
on his splendid horse, and wearing his breeches and 
leggins and a quite new coat. 

“Frankie!” she cried, in horror. “He’s coming in! 
Hide the sewing, quick!” 

“He wouldn’t care,” Frankie objected, but neverthe- 
less she obeyed, and every trace of their activity had 
vanished by the time Minnie admitted him. 

“Might I see Mrs. Defoe?” he asked. 

Minnie explained that she wasn’t able to come down- 
stairs. 

“So I’ve heard. But it’s a business matter. Perhaps 
she’d let me go up.” 

She did ; they watched him mounting the stairs, which 
creaked and shook under his heavy tread. 

“What can he want?” asked Frances, nervously. “Oh, 
Minnie, I hope and pray it’s nothing about my not go- 
ing on!” 

“I don’t see what else it can be,” said Minnie, consoh 
ingly. 

But she was soon enlightened. Mr. Petersen came 
tramping down again after twenty minutes’ talk and an- 
nounced that Mrs. Defoe would like to see Miss Minnie. 

The old lady was rather agitated. 

“Dear! Dear!” she whispered. “The man’s arranged 
a second mortgage on the east field, so that I can pay 
off part of that first mortgage Mr. Bascom is so rude 
about. I don’t understand it very well, but I must say 
he’s very considerate — ^very considerate. Dear me! 
You’ll have to be civil to him, pet. Ask him to sit down 
and give him a piece of the fruit cake.” 

She found him standing in the hall, talking to 
Frankie, and when she invited him into the parlour, he 
accepted cheerfully. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


49 

‘‘Get Mr. Petersen a piece of cake, Frankie,” said 
Minnie. She couldn't bring herself to wait on him. 

He was polite, he was clean and well-dressed, he said 
nothing that could offend her, and yet she was grossly 
offended, merely by the sight of him, sitting there, in 
the Defoe parlour, holding his sfraw hat in his great 
red hands. Couldn’t he realise? 

The fact of his being a Swede was enough. She had 
a very vague idea where and what Sweden was, knew 
nothing at all about its people, its history, its music, its 
literature. She considered all Scandinavians “low.” 
There was no appeal from that. 

Unconscious of his lowness, Mr. Petersen talked on 
pleasantly, told them what was going on in the town, and 
all the bits of news he thought they might like to hear. 
He was actuated by a great good-will toward both of the 
girls, and a peculiar interest in Minnie. He had thought 
of her often since that first meeting. 

He stopped a long time. When he had gone, Frankie 
began to laugh. 

“Minnie!” she cried. “Did you notice? He really 
looks awfully like old Michael.” 

Minnie refused to smile. 

“I think he’s a horrid, presumptuous man,” she said 
“I call it a shame that we have to put up with him.” 

“Nonsense,” Frankie interrupted her, “it’s he who puta 
up with us. A darn good thing for us he does! I like 
him !” 

Minnie was destined to see him often. As the old lady 
had requested, with great dignity, he called regularly 
every month and was conducted upstairs. She felt pretty 
sure that he didn’t get his rent, all of it, at any rate, but 
it didn’t affect him. He was as kind, as cheerful as ever, 
and always willing to make any repairs that were needed. 

It didn’t occur to her for some time that she was the 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


50 

object of ‘‘attentions’’ on his part. She knew that he 
liked to chat with her, and now and then he brought her 
fruit from his garden. But she didn’t think, she couldn’t 
think, that he “meant anything.” With the gulf there 
was between a Defoe and a Petersen ! 

It was Frankie who first mentioned it. 

“Do you know,” she said, “I think Mr. Petersen’s 
gone on you, Minnie.” 

“Don’t be so vulgar!” Minnie reproved her. 

“He’s always asking about you,” Frankie went on. 
“Oh, he is, Minnie, I know it!” 

Quite true; he was. He saw Frankie every day, and 
was yet proof against her beauty and her happy courage ; 
his heart never beat the quicker for her. He liked her 
very much, and respected her, and was courteous and 
kind and friendly toward her, but she had no appeal for 
him. In Minnie he saw every quality he most admired 
in a woman. He was happy to sit and look at her, al- 
ways with an apron on, going about her business in her 
terribly serious way. He thought her kind, gentle and 
sympathetic, he thought her thrifty and capable, he ad- 
mired her fine dark eyes and her matronly figure. He 
even fancied that she was peculiarly intelligent, because 
she always listened attentively to him, and was so silent, 
so mysterious herself. He noticed, too, how her grand- 
mother doted on her, and how Frances looked up to her. 
He was, in his cautious way, always studying her, until 
he thought he understood her. While, as a matter of 
fact, he misunderstood her completely, in every way, like 
the others. 

She was the quietest and the stupidest person in the 
house, and she ruled both the others; she was the least 
scrupulous, and they exalted her “goodness”; she did 
nothing well, and continually they praised her for her 
wonderful housekeeping. Enigma; extraordinary Minnie, 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


51 

quintessence of womanliness — in Heaven's name, who is 
to sit in judgment on you? 


Ill 

In the autumn the old lady was permitted to go 
downstairs once a day, and on the first of these occasions, 
Mr. Petersen came with a gift of fruit which he had 
bought in New York. Frances had told him of the old 
lady’s improvement and he wanted, so he said, to con- 
gratulate her. He came as usual on his horse, and Mrs. 
Defoe, who was sitting by the parlour window, was tjie 
first to see him. She frowned. 

‘‘Silly nonsense!” she said, half aloud. “A carpenter, 
capering round the country like a fine gentleman!” 

(A carpenter she had decided to consider him.) 

He came in; his face and hands looked redder than 
ever, and he was frankly wiping his forehead with a 
huge handkerchief. 

“Well!” he said cheerfully, “I’m very glad to see you 
so much better, Mrs. Defoe.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Petersen,” she replied, demurely. 

“We’re likely to have a mild winter, I believe,” he 
went on, “from all indications ” 

He rose as Minnie came in, grave, like one interrupted 
in the midst of important work, but mindful of the 
duties of hospitality. 

“I was saying,” he resumed, in his singing drawl, “I 
think we’ll have a fine, mild winter. I was working in 
my garden on Sunday ” 

“On Sunday r cried the old lady. 

“That’s the only day I have time,” he explained. 

“But Well, I have my little notions. . . . Very 

old-fashioned, I dare say. . . . You’re not a member of 
Our church, Mr. Petersen? I don’t remember ever hav- 
ing seen you there.” 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


52 

He shook his head. 

“A Lutheran?" 

‘‘No." 

^^A^Catholkr 

“I am a Freethinker," he said gravely. 

This was the final straw; Minnie and the old lady 
stared at him in open disapproval. 

“I think maybe on the other side we are not so — 
religious," he said. 

Mrs. Defoe had long been convinced of that, as she 
was of their immorality in general, but she was genuinely 
shocked that, under her roof, in the very room where the 
minister had sat not a week ago, in the very presence of 
her Bible and her prayer books, he should openly and 
without shame proclaim himself a Freethinker! Neither 
he nor Minnie had any idea what that word implied for 
her, with what horror and repulsion she had heard her 
husband speak of Tom Paine. She made some sort of 
excuse and, supported by Minnie, disappeared into the 
kitchen. 

“I’ll sit here," she whispered, “until that man’s gone." 

Mr. Petersen remained, happy and undisturbed, talk- 
ing on and on, while Minnie listened with her usual 
polite attention, giving no hint of her burning anxiety 
to get on with her work. She scarcely heard a word; 
no matter what he was saying, she was thinking, “Oh, 
dear ! Eleven o’clock and Grandma’s bed isn’t made yet I" 
That was of so much more importance and interest than 
anything he could say. 

He went away, imagining that he had ingratiated him- 
self with them both, by his present of fruit, and by his 
agreeable conversation; he didn’t suspect that there was 
now another and still blacker mark against him. 

He had only one friend in that household, and that 
was Frances. Before she had been working a week in 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


53 

his office, she realised something of his quality and as 
time went on she grew enthusiastic. 

“He’s a fine man,” she told her sister. “He’d make 
a wonderful husband. He has the disposition of an angel, 
really. He’s so honest, too. Everyone respects him.” 

“I wouldn’t marry him if I were starving,” said 
Minnie, “that common, vulgar carpenter!” 

“He’s not common and he’s not vulgar and he’s not 
a carpenter. I wish you could see his house.” 

“I never shall,” said Minnie. 

Frances often went there to fetch books for him when 
he was busy in his office. He lived in the town, in a 
solid old brick house which hq had remodelled and 
greatly improved, with a respectable Swede and his wife 
to attend to his wants. Everything very orderly, very 
simple, very comfortable, a hundred times more civilised 
than the Defoe home. He had his garden, which gave 
him a great deal of pleasure, and an excellent little 
library of Scandinavian and English books, law books, 
novels, plays, a number of books on Socialism and 
economics. He read a great deal, in a laborious sort of 
way, slowly going through page after page and taking 
the ideas into his own head, to be examined there. His 
chief interest was Socialism ; he could be — and often was 
— quite eloquent on that topic. 

He was rather lonely in Brownsville Landing. He 
had found no one who was interested in his kind of 
Socialism, which was something more than discontent 
and jealousy; he found no one who had read what he 
had read on the subject; he was not able to interest him- 
self in pool or poker, the popular recreations. Without 
being unduly vain, he believed himself to be considerably 
superior to the average inhabitant of the village. Even 
to the Defoes, as far as intellect and experience were 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


54 

concerned. He actually thought that he might be a good 
match for Minnie. 

Frances thought so too. She read his books with more 
and more respect and liked to hear him talk. She in- 
sisted upon quoting him to Minnie. She liked his plain 
and fine manner of living, she honoured his virtues. 

“Minnie, you're an idiot," she said, bluntly. “You 
couldn’t do better. If you’d come out*of the middle ages 
and really look at him ’’ 

“I don’t pretend to be a modern woman,’’ said Minnie^ 
virtuously. 


CHAPTER SIX 


I 

A ^EAR and a half went by, and nothing changed. 
Minnie was the same serious little drudge, Frankie went 
on with her work in Mr. Petersen’s office; he too was 
quite the same. The old lady was uncomplainingly busy. 
And the ‘*affair,’V also, between Minnie and Mr. Peter- 
sen had progressed not at all. Minnie had so willed it; 
she knew quite well how to check her very prudent 
suitor. 

Everything was going just as she wished. She was 
used now to Frankie’s being away all day; she rather 
liked it, it gave her a freer hand. She thought of noth- 
ing but the daily routine and never tired of it. She 
would sit with her grandmother and discuss for hours 
the advisability and the possibility of a new preserving 
kettle, or whether they should send the rags to be woven 
into a rug, or whether Thomas Washington had been un- 
fair about the tomatoes. She liked to tell Frankie that 
she worried about the future, but she really never did. 
She was remarkably contented. No great effort was 
required of her; she wasn’t expected to read, or to keep 
up-to-date; even to trouble about clothes. She could 
work along in a sort of pleasant daze, just as she wished, 
praised by everyone for whatever she did, her numerous 
omissions and failures unknown. The animals were an 
unfailing happiness to her; she had her grandmother 
to talk to, and Frankie in the evening, and ther^ was 
always the gratifying sense of Mr. Petersen’s admira- 
55 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


56 

tion in the background. Ever3^hing going so smoothly, 
so beautifully, until once more Frankie spoiled it all. 

She came home one evening in a fever of excitement. 
The librarian in the Carnegie Branch — a nice, jolly girl 
who extolled Mr. Petersen and liked Frankie — had told 
her of a position in New York. 

‘‘She was offered it, but it wouldn’t suit her, so she 
recommended me. She says she’s sure I could fill it. 
Wasn’t it nice of her?” 

Minnie said nothing. 

“It’s an authoress ; she wants a secretary. She doesn’t 
care so much about experience or training, but she wants 
someone presentable — of good family.” 

That was emphasised to appease Minnie. 

“It’s thirty dollars a month, free and clear. I’d send 
you half/* 

Minnie looked coldly at her. 

“I suppose you’d be only too glad to go,” she said. 

“Of course not,” said Frankie, and dropped the sub- 
ject for the time. Only in her heart longed and longed 
for that wonderful job, that new, entrancing life in the 
city. 

Of course she got it. That goes without saying. She 
was twenty-two, and passionately desirous. Of course 
she got it ! But after what a struggle ! 

At first she renounced the plan utterly. It was selfish. 
She went to bed, lay by Minnie’s side, weeping quietly 
for a long time in the dark, longing and longing. Then 
she grew desperate. She must go! She couldn’t give 
up such an opportunity. The next day she wrote to the 
authoress and presently had a letter asking her to call. 
So she was obliged to tell them. 

There was a dreadful scene. They even wept. She 
was amazed by her own ruthless firmness ; she had never 
imagined she could so trample on these two beloved crea- 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


57 

tures. She tried, poor girl, to explain something of her 
own fiery restlessness and vigour, her need for more life. 
But to no purpose ; they saw nothing but her wish and 
determination to leave them. She ended, as one usually 
does, by losing her temper, and shut herself in the bed- 
room, trembling with anger. 

“Do they expect me to bury myself here?’’ she thought, 
“Just to stop here, forever and ever? It’s all very well 
for Grandma, she^ s seventy-five, and it’s all right for 

Minnie. A little old maid like her! But me I 

won’t !” 

She temporised, fully resolved to hurt them this once, 
and then to load them with benefits, when her wonderful 
future should begin. 

Daylight faded; the old room grew quite dark, the 
pallid yellow in the west turned grey, then inky. Her 
lamp was downstairs, and not for anything would she 
have gone after it. She drew a rocking chair up to the 
window and sat there looking out over the melancholy 
wide fields stretching to the mountains. One of those 
immeasurably solemn and majestic moods came over her: 
the night breeze blew on her face, sighing through the 
pine trees; her spirit was not on earth. High resolves, 
divine unselfishness, fired her; she wanted to help every- 
one, not only Minnie and her grandmother, but every 
single human soul. She felt urged to a mighty 
destiny. . . . 

Then the mood ebbed, and left her chilled and lonely. 
She could hear Minnie in the kitchen directly beneath 
her; her pleasant voice talking to Michael; sometimes a 
cough from the old lady. Like a knife her love pierced 
her, love for everything safe, familiar and homely. 

In another minute she would have rushed down the 
stairs to fling her arms round her sister, to tell her she 
would not, could not, ever leave her. But at that moment 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


58 

the door opened and Minnie entered, lamp in hand; her 
eyes were red, her plain face rather pale. 

“Frankie,” she said, and setting down the lamp, caught 
her sister in a tight embrace. 

“Frankie,” she went on, “Fve been talking it over 
with Grandma. . . . And we’re both willing — for you 
to go ” 

She could keep her tears back no longer ; they wept to- 
gether on each other’s shoulders. 

Minnie was the first to look up and dry her eyes. 

“Now come downstairs, dear,” she said, “I’ve made 
delicious cornmeal gems for your supper.” 

II 

It was a bitter loss to Minnie. She drove Frankie to 
the station that last day with her heart like lead. And 
though she had voluntarily let her go, and said good-by 
to her steadily and cheerfully, her very real affection for 
her sister was hurt beyond remedy. She never again 
felt quite the same toward her, never lost that faint 
resentment; always remembered that Frances had 
wanted to go off and leave her, alone and lonely. 

The house was dreadful when she re-entered it. She 
cried all day as she did her work, and went to sleep in 
miserable solitude. Oh, but she missed Frankie, the 
brilliant, the lovely, the ardent ! And the more she missed 
her, the more deeply did she feel the wrong Frankie 
had done her. 

Life had become unsupportable. She thought all the 
time of some way in which she could change it, a way 
which should, of course, satisfy her conscience. 

For Minnie’s was a conscience which imperiously re- 
quired satisfaction. She had always to feel sure that she 
was “doing right.” However, as she was always cer- 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 59 

tain that all her aims were beyond reproach, her con- 
science never refused to sanction whatever means she 
employed in arriving at them. 

She was more than a Jesuit. She did not so much 
believe that bad means were justified by a worthy end; 
she was simply convinced that no means used by her 
were, or could possibly be, bad. 

Remorse and regret were unknown to her. And de- 
feat, too, she had not as yet encountered. From her 
earliest years she had known how to get her own way. 
Either a serious manner made any request seem reason- 
able, or, if this failed, thoughtful consideration had al- 
ways showed her a way to victory. 

And yet, for all her crookedness and her muddle- 
headedness, and her fierce and ridiculous ruthlessness, 
wasn’t there something about Minnie that was really sub- 
lime? When you look at her whole life, in all its pre- 
posterousness, can you really say whether or not she was 
good ? Or bad ? Or perhaps was not either good or bad, 
but elemental and innocent, even in harm, like a force of 
nature ? 

She bent her mind now upon her problem, surveyed 
her situation from every angle. Useless to deny that she 
considered Mr. Petersen. She turned him over and over 
in her mind, and, not without deep study, rejected him. 
He absolutely would not do. She couldn’t be Mrs. Peter- 
sen. Although he had never asked her, never mentioned 
the subject at all. 

She was quite determined to marry someone, though, 
and to marry soon. She couldn’t see any other end to 
her miseries and her loneliness. She realised that under 
the present circumstan:es she was not at all likely to 
meet anyone marriageable; she could not, like Frankie, 
roam the world to find a man; she had to use more 
subtle and more difficult means. And, actually, alone 


6o INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

and unaided, the indomitable little thing thought of a 
way 


III 

It was difficult to find a pretext for getting into the 
village that day. It was not her regular day, nothing 
was really needed, and no mail expected. Her grand- 
mother was a little annoyed at such obstinacy. 

‘^I can’t see^' she protested, “why on earth you want 
to go gadding off again to-day, with so much to be 
done.” 

“I’ve seen to everything,” Minnie answered, and it 
was true. 

“You’ll have to go in on Saturday,” the old lady re- 
minded her. 

“I need the wire,” said Minnie, calmly. (Chicken 
wire being the pretext. ) _ 

The old lady argued that she could wait. Minnie 
wished to know what was to be gained by waiting: she 
had any number of excellent reasons for not waiting. 
In the end she went out to harness Bess, with secret 
triumph, knowing that she had disarmed all her grand- 
mother’s suspicions, and wouldn’t need to make explana- 
tions when she returned home. 

She drove off in the buggy, sitting very straight, with 
a full sense of her dignity as a young lady of fine old 
family. It never occurred to her that she was in the least 
ridiculous. She was not physically vain, but she did 
consider herself impressive, aristocratic, and it would 
have been a cruel shock to her to know that the cultured 
spinister. Miss Vanderhof, used to laugh when she saw 
her driving by, and say to her me ther, “There goes Miss 
Quixote !” 

Penniless and proud Minnie was, but farther than 
that the simile would not hold. No one less likely than 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 6i 

she to tilt against windmills, no one less sympathetic 
toward a lost cause. 

She was engrossed in the management of the silly old 
horse, scanning the road for anything that might disturb 
its absurd old nerves, sternly resolved that it shouldn’t 
over-exert itself. She was convinced that she had a 
most high-strung, mettlesome animal to handle. 

At last she reached the village and drove regally along 
the Main Street, bowing right and left to the trades- 
people, almost all of them her grandmother’s creditors. 

She stopped in front of the up-to-date office building, 
leaving Bess in charge of a reliable little boy in spectacles, 
personally known to her, then she climbed the stairs and 
knocked on Mr. Petersen’s door. 

He was delighted to see her, drew forward a chair 
and sat down opposite her with a pleasant smile. 

‘‘It’s something new to see you here,” he said. “The 
first time, isn’t it?” 

Minnie said it was. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said appealingly, hesitat- 
ingly, “I know I shouldn’t take up your time, but — I 
don’t know anyone else I could possibly ask ” 

“I’m only too happy,” he assured her. “What can I 
do?” 

“Your advice,” she said. “I — things aren’t going — 
very well. ... I wanted to put this in a New York 
paper. But I didn’t know which was the best, the most — 
respectable. If you think it’s . . . Would you just 
please look at it?” 

She had taken a piece of paper from her shabby little 
purse and now handed it to him. He read it, read it 
again, and his face grew scarlet. 

“Young gentleman would receive hoard and 
practical instruction in farming in refined fanu- 


62 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


ily. Beautiful location. Moderate terms. Ap- 
ply X 

'‘But ” he faltered, "I don’t ... do you mean 

. . . you would teach farming, Miss Minnie ?” 

“Yes,” she said, calmly. “I could always ask Thomas 
Washington about things I didn’t know, when they came 
up. His truck farm is quite a model, you know.” 

Mr. Petersen was suffering horribly; he felt that he 
could not keep a straight face much longer. 

“But — you see . . . ” he said. “People don’t do that 
much — in these days. There are — you know — any num- 
ber of agricultural colleges ” 

“Yes,” said Minnie, scornfully. “That’s all very well. 
But practical experience is what anyone needs. You 
can’t learn farming out of books.” 

Mr. Petersen tried to convince her that students at 
agricultural colleges didn’t occupy themselves exclusively 
with books, but he failed. She plainly considered all 
such institutions ridiculous and unpractical. He did con- 
vince her, however, that other people would very likely 
have the same silly notions as he had, and that it would 
be difficult, to say the least, for her to secure a pupil. 

“Then suppose I simply advertise for a boarder?” she 
said. 

Mr. Petersen was silent for some time, torn between 
a desire to placate Minnie, and a strong dislike for mak- 
ing a fool of himself. Suppose she were able to say 
afterward, “Well, you didn’t say anything against it. 
I consulted you!” No! He couldn’t; he had to be 
honest. 

“The trouble is, nowadays people expect so much,” 
he said, with a distressed frown. “All sorts of con- 
veniences. Bathroom, hot water, gas or electricity. I 
don’t believe — unless of course you were willing to makf' 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 63 

very low terms — and in that case you wouldn’t attract 
the sort of person you’d care to have in the house.” 

‘‘I’d have to take what I could get,” said Minnie. 

Their points of view were so astonishingly different. 
Mr. Petersen wished to convey politely to her the idea 
that no sane person would dream of coming to board in 
a desolate old farm without even the classic advantages 
of fresh milk and “scenery.” And Minnie wondered 
that he couldn’t see the extraordinary and fascinating 
results which might follow the introduction of a strange 
man into their household. He might be an old man, 
who would naturally die and leave her all his money, 
or a young one who would marry her. She even thought, 
with irrational delight, of the possibility of an artist, or 
a poet. . . . Why wouldn’t the man understand that she 
didn’t care whether or not she made money from the 
venture ? The essential thing was, that something should 
happen. 

“And with the winter coming on,” said Mr. Petersen. 

“I should think,” said Minnie, stiffly, “that there’d be 
plenty of people who would enjoy a nice, old-fashioned 
country winter.” 

“An old person,” she added. “He might enjoy Grand- 
pa’s library.” 

This was absolutely too much for Mr. Petersen. He 
could no longer restrain himself; he burst into a tre- 
mendous laugh. He had a vision of a wretched old man, 
shivering in their frigid parlour, absorbed in that desolat- 
ing accumulation of old hymn books, old volumes of 
sermons, bound volumes of long dead and forgotten 
magazines, and sickly old novels. By the time he had 
controlled his mirth, he had mortally and eternally of- 
fended Minnie. She rose. 

“Thank you very much,” she said, with a polite smile. 


64 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

“It’s very good of you to advise me. I’ll think over all 
you’ve said.” 

“Just a minute!” he cried in alarm. “Please! . . . Miss 
Minnie ... if it’s a question of — earning a — little 
pocket money — why don’t you consider a position in an 
office?” 

A long silence. 

“In my office, for instance? If you’d like your sister’s 
place ” 

“No, thank you; I couldn’t leave Grandma,” she am 
swered. 

And went out, burning with resentment against him. 
He knew it; as she drove off he watched her from the 
window with a sigh of regret. Her pitiful ignorance, her 
enterprise, her obstinacy, touched him profoundly. His 
heart positively ached for her. 

Alas, Mr. Petersen ! By reason of his compassion, for- 
ever lost! 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


I 

Behold Minnie, a week or so later, harnessing Bess, 
this time for a mission authorised and altogether blame- 
less. She was going to the station to meet Frankie, who 
was coming home for a week-end. 

For days she and her grandmother had been making 
preparations, partly from an affectionate wish to please 
Frankie, and partly from a desire to impress her with 
their own importance and progressiveness. They had 
both an unspoken but perfectly understood feeling that it 
would be intolerable for her to say or to think that every- 
thing was unchanged since she had left. The old lady 
was specially proud of a pile of copies of a weekly maga- 
zine which she had audaciously subscribed for, seduced 
by a nice young agent. 

As for Minnie, she had something up her sleeve which 
she knew would astonish and amaze, and utterly kill any 
news Frankie might bring. She whistled as she worked 
in the stable with a slightly malicious delight in anticipat- 
ing the shock. Although she was terribly nervous, too. 
She had not yet had occasion to try her strength, and 
she was afraid that they — the practical, experienced wage- 
earning Frankie, and the quite incomprehensible old 
lady, might crush her. She was bound and determined 
to win, but she wasn't altogether sure. . . . 

She drove off in her usual majestic fashion, agreeably 
conscious of a new hat. In order that she might com- 
pete upon equal terms with Frankie, her grandmother 
65 


66 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


had presented it to her, bought with money withheld 
from Heaven knows how many creditors. A triumphal 
progress through the town, and she came up the gravel 
drive to the station with something faintly resembling a 
trot. There, however, she was forced to descend, and 
hold the old mare by the bridle, patting her nose, trying 
with intense seriousness to soothe her. She couldn’t bear 
to see her start and tremble, with that distressing rolling 
of her brown eyes, at the first sound of the engine’s 
whistle. She had suggested that Frances should walk as 
far as the drug-store, so that Bess could wait there, out 
of sight of the trains that so disturbed her, but Frances 
wrote back with some spirit that she did not intend to 
lug a heavy bag four blocks for the sake of a silly old 
horse. She threatened to hire a hack, and rather than 
suffer that affront to the Defoe pride, Minnie was ready 
to make great concessions. 

She was too much taken up with the horse to see her 
sister at first, and Frances had an oddly illuminating view 
of her, an impersonal view. It seemed to her that she 
had never before looked at Minnie without Minnie’s look- 
ing back at her; this was not the Minnie familiar to her 
as her own reflection in the glass, but a stranger, a solemn, 
swarthy little woman, very countrified, inclined to plump- 
ness, looking older than her years. She felt terribly sorry 
for her, hurried to her in affectionate remorse for hav- 
ing so seen her. 

Minnie greeted her with her very agreeable smile. 

“Frankie, you look splendid!” she said warmly. 

So she- did. She had a new tweed suit and a quite 
plain hat, correct, well-chosen things that suited her tall 
strong figure and permitted attention to fly at once to 
her gay, brilliant face. Oh, there was some foundation 
for the Defoe pride! Minnie, in her mind, saluted her 
sister as a princess, the vindication of the family. She 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 67 

felt not the slightest envy; that was not one of her 
faults. Or was it that she was too well satisfied with 
her own quite different allure? 

They drove through the Main Street again and past 
the up-to-date brick building, and, as she hoped, Frances 
asked her: 

“How's old Petersen these days?" 

“All right," Minnie answered, and was able to tell her 
several quite satisfactory things he had said on his last 
visit. He was a poor enough swain, but he was better 
than none, and the lovely Frankie had none! She lis- 
tened with interest. 

“Fm sure he means something T she said. 

Minnie admitted that she thought so too. 

“But of course I don’t encourage him," she said. 
“Imagine his even thinking of such a thing — a man of 
his class!" 

“That’s all nonsense," said Frances, bluntly. “I think 

he’s splendid. And he’s well read and intelligent 

If you like him " 

“Well, I don’t. Anyway, I’ve got other plans," said 
Minnie. “I’ll tell you after supper." 

Frances didn’t ask what these plans were, didn’t show 
any special interest in them, never for an instant sus- 
pected their radical and disturbing character. She did 
not even notice that Minnie was unusually preoccupied. 

She hastened into the house to embrace her grand- 
mother and to make and answer all the traditional en- 
quiries; then looked about her with a peculiar emotion 
that was almost pain. She loved the old place, in a 
way; looked toward it while absent as her home and 
sure refuge, dreamed of it often with longing, but with 
devout thankfulness that she was no longer imprisoned 
in it. The memory of the two years she had suffered 
there was ineradicable. 


68 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


Minnie and her grandmother seemed to her pitiful, 
small and shabby. She wanted ardently to help them and 
to change and improve them. She tried to keep this 
benevolence out of her manner, but it was always there, 
and they felt it. 

She told them that she hoped soon to be able to send 
money home regularly. 

‘‘Fm going to study shorthand,” she told them, ‘‘and 
then ril be able to earn much more.” 

She saw their faces, unconvinced, not even much in- 
terested, and her enthusiasm waned. She would have 
to prove her good intentions to them. 

II 

Supper was over, and the dishes washed and put 
away. It was rather later than usual, on account of 
Frankie’s talkativeness, and the old lady announced that 
she was going “right straight to bed.” To her great sur- 
prise, Minnie stopped her. 

“Please, Grandma,” she said, “I want to talk to you 
for a minute. Frankie too. Please come into the 
parlour.” 

They followed her and waited while she lighted the 
blue china lamp on the centre table; then, at her request, 
they sat down. The occasion, as she intended it should, 
had taken on a solemn and important air; she faced 
them, flushed, serious, dogged. 

“Grandma,” she began, “I’ve been thinking a great 
deal. ... I don’t think we ought to go on like this. . . . 
Frankie and I aren’t children now, you know. ... I 
think — we ought to know how things stand.” 

The old lady looked at her but said nothing ; she was 
waiting for a more definite challenge. She got it at 
once. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 69; 

‘‘I mean/^ said Minnie, stoutly, *Vhat have we got to 
live on?’’ 

‘‘WhaPs this!” cried the old lady tartly. 

‘‘I know we’re in debt. People are getting — horrid. 
They don’t want your — our trade. Really, Grandma, 
you ought to talk things over with Frankie and me.” 

The old lady was almost unable to speak. 

“I never!^' she repeated, again and again, *'1 never! 
At my time of life . . . talking things over with two 
girls of your age!” 

“We only want to help,” said Minnie, ingeniously in- 
cluding her sister. 

“I’ve got on pretty well for seventy-five years without 
your assistance,” said the old lady. 

“Well,” observed Minnie, “it’s not what I call getting 
on. Grandma, we’ve got to have some sort of method. 
I ... do please let us know — what there is?” 

“Really, Grandma, I do think it would be better,” 
Frankie interposed, “Minnie’s a wonderful manager, and 
I’m sure she could help you ever so much.” 

“Two children ! It’s outrageous! I’ve managed . . .” 

“Grandma,” Minnie interrupted solemnly, “Mr. Simms 
spoke tO' me.” 

This was a telling blow ; the old lady winced under it. 

“He was in a very bad temper,” Minnie went on, 
“and he said to me, in the rudest way, 'How many years 
longer is this bill going to run, anyway?’ ” 

Frances was distressed by the idea of debts. 

“Oh, dear!” she cried, “That’s too bad! Do let’s talk 
it over. Grandma dear, and see what can be done.” 

But Minnie met with an obstinacy inflexible as her 
own. Not one detail could they extract from the old 
lady. She took refuge in bitter reproa«h. 

“I’ve worked for you both, day in and day out, for 
more than two years,” she said, “and whatever money 


70 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


IVe spent was my own. I’m not accountable to anyone 
for it.” And she called them undutiful, ungrateful, un- 
kind. 

“Very well, then,” said Minnie at last, “if you’re go- 
ing to take it that way . . . if you refuse to — to co- 
operate, Grandma, then I’ll have to accept an offer I had 
of a position in an office.” 

“What office?” Frankie asked, with interest. 

“Mr. Petersen’s. He says I can have your place. I’ll 
go down to the village to-morrow and find a girl to stay 
with Grandma while I’m away.” 

Now, both Frances and Minnie knew that, on account 
of her liability to those mysterious “attacks,” it wouldn’t 
do to leave the old lady alone, and they wouldn’t have 
done so under any circumstances, but she, poor old soul, 
terrified before their confident youth, not knowing what 
resources they had, felt them to be capable of everything. 
She pictured herself, solitary again, ill perhaps, with a 
strange servant prowling about, prying into everything, 
pilfering, undoubtedly setting the house on fire. . . . 

It was a most painful scene; she broke down, cried, 
surrendered. Minnie, although with tears in her eyes, 
saw her opportunity and pressed her point. 

“Grandma dear,” she said, “tell us just what you have, 
and we’ll arrange some way to manage.” 

The old lady confessed resentfully to a sole income of 
twenty-five dollars a month. They were incredulous. 

“But in that case,” said Frances, “you must . . . 
Why, there must be ... ” 

“About how much do you suppose — we — owe?” asked 
Minnie. 

This question the old lady couldn’t answer, because 
she actually did not know. She had never attempted to 
calculate ; it was a topic she did not care to think about. 
She mentioned a number of tradespeople who had been 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


71 

'Very nice’’; in fact, she deluded herself into the belief 
they enjoyed serving a Defoe. They were, she assured 
the girls, perfectly willing to wait. Wait for Heaven 
knows what ! 

"Mr. Petersen, too, I suppose,” Minnie asked with a 
frown, "I suppose we owe him money?” 

"Dear me, child, he’s only too pleased to have some- 
one living here. He told me so himself. He couldn’t 
rent this place to anyone else; he’d simply have to pay 
a caretaker.” 

"Why did he buy it then?” enquired Frankie. 

The subject was not pursued, however, for Minnie 
had got up, a little pale as her great minute approached. 

"Now then. Grandma and Frankie,” she said, "here’s 
my plan. I want to take charge of the housekeeping and 
— and the money. . . . I’ll keep things going and try to 
pay off the debts.” 

"Nonsense, child! What are you going to pay them 
off with? How far do you imagine ” 

"I’ve found a boarder,” she said. 

"A boarder!” they both cried, simultaneously. 

"A literary gentleman,’" she explained, "from New 
York. He’ll only pay eight dollars a week, but he’s a 
start, anyway.” 

"But, my dear,” Frances objected, "where could you 
put him ?” 

"Nowhere in my house !” cried the old lady. "I won’t 
hear of it ! It’s disgraceful ! It’s vulgar ! I won’t have 
it!” 

"I mtistr said Minnie, "I’ve made up my mind. I 
can’t and won’t go on this way. Either you’ll let me 
have this boarder or I’ll have to go into Mr. Petersen’s 
office.” 

They argued, wrangled, remonstrated. It was of vital 
importance to them both. To the old lady a boarder 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


72 

meant incalculable loss of dignity, it meant degradation. 
She defended her position vehemently, fought to the last 
ditch for her honour. 

But Minnie won. Her grandmother’s resistance 
crumpled at last before her iron determination. She 
went up to bed that night in a sort of ecstasy of triumph, 
drunk with her first victory. Her career had begun. 
The tiger had tasted blood. 

Ill 

She met with some slight opposition from Frances, 
loyally concealed until they were alone, but this she 
easily ended by a great deal of talk about the necessity 
of earning a living. 

That’s what she called it; never facing the truth. If 
someone else had confronted her with it, she very likely 
wouldn’t have recognised it. Even in her own soul she 
called it a chance to ‘'earn a living,” when it was really 
nothing but a ferocious determination to seek another 
man before accepting Mr. Petersen. She was resolved 
upon getting married. Mr. Petersen she would take if 
no one else presented, but not without a struggle, a gal- 
lant struggle to find a better. No one, nothing should 
balk her of this literary man from New York. 

It was another little triumph, too, to be the object of 
such deep interest to her sister. They sat in the gloomy, 
cold bedroom, Frances on the bed with a blanket round 
her shoulders, while Minnie, erect on a broken little chair 
near the lamp, combed her heavy black hair with con- 
scientious vigour. 

“How on earth did you ever find him?” Frances 
asked. 

“I saw his advertisement in a New York paper; he 
wanted country board some place where he could be 
quiet, for his writing. So I answered it.” 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


73 


Frances expressed admiration for her enterprise. 

‘‘It was wonderful for you to think of such a thing/* 
she said, ‘‘But, Minnie, what an awful lot of work a.nd 
bother for you !’* 

“I don’t mind that,” Minnie answered scornfully, “I 
like to work hard.” 

They sat up late, discussing the arrangement of the 
boarder’s room and everything connected with him. They 
forgot nothing, overlooked nothing, except the effect of 
all this upon their grandmother. 

She lay awake in her room, vaguely bitter, very un- 
happy. She had died and been buried that evening. She 
was supplanted. She was no longer to be the guardian 
of Frankie and Minnie; in the future they were to take 
care of her. As far as they were concerned, she was 
unnecessary; she was — one might say — no longer any- 
thing but an urn of sacred ashes, to be reverenced as the 
receptacle of what had once been an important human 
being. 

They heard her coughing feebly. 

“No wonder she coughs !” said Minnie. “She will not 
have the window open the least crack.” 

Frances spent all the next day, which was Sunday, in 
helping Minnie give the boarder’s room a “good clean- 
ing.” They cherished a tradition that they detested such 
work, that it disgusted and exhausted them, but one 
had only to hear their voices to know that the vigorous 
work delighted them and that they were tremendously 
happy in doing it. Frankie was on her knees scrubbing 
the floor, while Minnie cleaned the windows. They talked 
incessantly; when it became necessary for Minnie to 
clean the outsides of the panes, Frankie always had to 
stop work and stand beside her, so that she could still 
hear. 

As a sort of silent protest, their grandmother had 


74 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


dressed herself in her best dress and was sitting in the 
parlour, reading a book of sermons. The girls insisted 
that they were too busy to go to church. 

'‘Til drive you, if you want,” Minnie told her, grudg- 
ingly, “but I can’t spare the time to stay through the 
service.” 

The old lady then said that all this work on the Sabbath 
was godless and altogether wrong, and that she wouldn’t 
help in the least. Which Minnie smartly .parried by giv- 
ing her to understand that there was nothing she could 
do — at her age. Relations were very much strained. . . . 

They sat down to supper, weary but profoundly satis- 
fied. 

“Well!” said Frances, “I hope he’ll be all right. I 
hope he’ll be the right sort.” 

Minnie shook her head gravely. 

“Not likely,” she said, “at eight dollars a week.” 

“It isn’t money that gives people distinction,” Frances 
protested. 

“Generally it is,” said Minnie. 

Frances departed the next morning with a comfortable 
feeling that now Minnie wouldn’t be so lonely. Per- 
haps she had a secret hope like the one Minnie so cun- 
ningly dissembled. . . . 

A fortnight later she had an enthusiastic letter from 
Minnie, enclosing a blurred and artistic photograph of 
herself and the old lady, sitting in the sunset. The polite, 
the well-informed Mr. Blair had taken it. Then for a 
long time she heard no more on the subject, and she was 
too much engrossed in her own affairs to make enquiries 
about those of anyone else. 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


I 

That winter was for Minnie the bitterest and hardest 
one she was ever to know. She came to the very brink 
of discouragement; she had not as yet fully developed 
the supreme self-confidence which later sustained her 
through such extraordinary trials, and there were mo- 
ments when she had faint doubts of her own wisdom and 
ability. When she almost regretted that she had em- 
barked upon this course. 

The boarder was practically the first man she had 
ever known, for Mr. Petersen she didn’t count, and on 
him and his gentlemanly letter she had built an elabo- 
rate and exciting future. She looked upon it as almost 
a certainty that she would marry him. Or if not him, 
then some one of his literary friends, whom he would 
be encouraged to invite frequently to the farm. She was 
anxious to marry. All her maiden dreams were of mar- 
riage, never of love, always of a husband, never of a 
lover. She required a man who was kind and able to sup- 
port her; she didn’t indulge in romantic dreams of a 
handsome man, or a gallant one. 

Still, Mr. Blair was almost too unromantic. She was 
shocked when she saw him. She had gone down to the 
station to meet him, expectant of Heaven knows what — 
anything but what he was ; a pompous middle-aged man 
in spectacles and baggy, cheap clothes. She could have 
wept at the sight of him. 

But before they had reached the house, she had begun 
75 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


76 

to see compensations in him. He was affable, obliging, 
and courtly; so attentive that she was disposed to over- 
look his age, his bagginess and his dustiness. 

His conversation was remarkable. He talked cease- 
lessly, in a bland, slow voice. He explained everything, 
because all things were known to him. They passed the 
rubber factory, and he explained the entire process of 
rubber manufacture, went back to the gathering of rub- 
ber, and finally to curious facts about rubber trees. He 
took pains to use terms she would understand. Also he 
explained to her why Bess refused to pass milk waggons, 
and told her a great deal about horses hitherto unknown 
to her. 

Of the old lady he made an easy conquest. He obeyed 
the call to supper with alacrity, but although he had had 
quite an hour and a half to rest and make ready, although 
warm water and a clean towel and a new cake of scented 
soap had been provided for him, it was evidejit that fie 
had spent no time in washing. His nails were grimy, 
like his cuffs. Still, he was so pleasant and so courtly, so 
full of interesting information, that the two women 
couldn’t withstand him. Especially the old lady. 

‘‘Minnie,” she whispered, when the girl rose to clear 
the table, “why don’t you make some of your fudge for 
Mr. Blair?” 

Minnie was quite willing and Mr. Blair very much 
pleased ; he rather archly admitted a “sweet tooth.” She 
made haste to clear the table, and while the kettle was 
heating for the dishes, she started her confectionery, 
bending seriously over a saucepan on the fire. Michael 
sat watching her with scornful eyes. He never looked 
at anyone else; all his faith was placed in Minnie; he 
expected nothing from any other source. 

She was somewhat surprised at seeing Mr. Blair 
saunter in; the kitchen was not the place for any man. 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 77 

let alone a boarder. He was, however, oblivious of the 
proprieties. He offered to, and insisted upon, drying 
the dishes for her. Humorously he tied about his 
ample middle a gingham apron and set to work slowly 
but competently. He gave her many points, too, about 
how things might be done better, how she could save 
steps, and so forth. About the range, and the coal, 
about soaps, about how a kitchen should be arranged 
efficiently. 

Then, when everything was neat and clean, the fire 
banked and Michael and his brethren locked in the cellar, 
he followed Minnie into the parlour, bringing a plate of 
the fudge. 

They sat up unusually late, very cosy, about the blue 
china lamp, eating Minnie’s candy and hearing Mr. 
Blair’s stately voice telling of dairy farming in Holland. 
He admitted that he had never been there, but he knew. 
This was a curious feature about Mr. Blair; he always 
spoke as a witness, irrefutable and calmly positive; ap- 
parently his knowledge came through inspiration or clair- 
voyance, for he never mentioned having read or heard 
any of it. 

“Well,” said the old lady to Minnie, as they were going 
up to bed, “I don’t know when I’ve spent a pleasanter 
evening!” 

II 

Mr. Blair had a remarkable opportunity to display 
his quality the next day, for the old lady had another 
of her “attacks.” He at once assumed a position of 
authority. He sat by her bedside making the most pro- 
fessional enquiries, and establishing boundless confidence 
by his graveness and his assurance. When the doctor ar- 
rived, he met him as a colleague, conferred secretly with 
him, gave his own opinion and listened with professional 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


78 

courtesy to that of the other. Then went out to the 
stable to comfort Minnie. 

‘Tt is not immediately serious,” he told her; 'T studied 
medicine for some time, and I understand these things.” 

He not only comforted Minnie, but he helped her in 
material ways. He was very “handy,” somewhat in her 
own manner. That is, he had a certain manual facility, 
and was very easily satisfied: he didn’t require his “jobs” 
either to look well or to wear well. He was of a most 
domestic disposition. He really enjoyed sitting in the 
kitchen and peeling potatoes while he talked; he even 
swept the parlour with wet tea leaves. He put up shelves 
and hooks, convenient although not quite trustworthy ; he 
carried the old lady’s trays upstairs, made the coffee for 
breakfast after a scientific method which required a 
large amount of coffee and took quite half an hour; he 
looked after the fire night and morning; did everything 
except the literary work he had come there to do. 

It appeared that he had not yet begun this literary 
career; he had been, he said, a business man, but his 
health had failed, and he had decided to earn his bread 
by his pen. In a series of special articles on America’s 
Industries. He had planned them all meticulously, the 
twelve articles, with their titles, sub-titles, number of 
words in each, and the space that was to be occupied by 
photographs. Only he had not as yet written a single 
sentence. 

His health was deceptive ; no one would have suspected 
him of being so broken-down, except for a lassitude that 
was almost incredible. He ate very well, and slept well, 
and was always cheerful; still it was necessary for him 
to take a tonic, a “heart medicine,” and a “digestive 
stimulant.” Every morning he read the newspaper thor- 
oughly from end to end, then, after he had helped Minnie 
with the housework, he sat. Not reading, simply sitting, 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


79 

in the sun, if there were any, but always by a window, 
for he liked to see anything that passed. 

The relations between him and Minnie were curious. 
She knew that he admired her ; he often said so, and she 
exhibited a very discreet complacence toward his compli- 
ments. She was, as always, impersonal, detached, with 
an agreeableness difficult to misunderstand. She was 
considerate and pleasant toward him, just as she was 
toward her grandmother — or toward Thomas Washing- 
ton. What she really thought of him no one knew, but 
Mr. Blair, with characteristic simplicity, was sure that 
she was well-disposed toward him, if not something 
more. . . . 

He was a Southerner, and a mighty consequential one. 
He believed that he understood women, that his gallantry, 
learning and courtliness combined could not fail to con- 
quer. Even the hard fact that he made no headway did 
not disconcert him. He knew it was impossible for him 
to fail. 

It was not long before his too affectionate disposition 
became evident. He wanted to take Minnie’s hand and 
pat it, or even put an arm about her waist in a fatherly 
way. Dalliance, however, had no part in Minnie’s life; 
it was not one of her weaknesses, and she discouraged 
him pretty brusquely. Or rather, tried to discourage him. 
After a rebuff he would stroll over to Thomas Wash- 
ington’s cottage and bargain to be taken into the village 
in Thomas’s Ford. Thomas, in spite of his dignity, was 
not above a certain pride in being seen talking confiden- 
tially with a white man; he almost always accommo- 
dated him. And Mr. Blair would buy things for Minnie 
and the old lady and come cheerfully home again. They 
couldn’t help being pleased, they had so very few pleas- 
ures. They would all sit in the old lady’s room, eating 
the ice-cream he had brought and, of course, listening to 


8o 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


him. Only when he recurred to the subject of Thomas 
Washington and his race did they become restive. They 
disagreed with him strongly. In the first place, they 
didn’t at all like the word “nigger.” Then, his opinions, 
boiled down, amounted simply to this: that “niggers” 
were created simply for the convenience of Southern 
whites, that it was impudent and radical and altogether 
harmful to Southern industry for Northerners to have 
them in their country at all ; that no one but a Southerner 
knew anything about them, had any right to their serv- 
ices, or could possibly get on with them. He and he 
alone knew how to “handle” Thomas Washington — that 
is, to exploit him. He did not think it necessary to tell 
them that he had to pay well for any favour received 
from Thomas. He wanted them to think that he stood 
in place of the Lord to that family — that the Washing- 
tons, young and old, couldn’t help adoring and respecting 
his Southerness. But Minnie and the old lady knew 
Thomas too well. 

A great triumph for Minnie was the showing of this 
boarder to Mr. Petersen. He had said that she couldn’t 
get one! He came in one afternoon and she presented 
them to each other, carefully watching the Swedish coun- 
tenance for some sort of chagrin. Useless; he smiled 
his slow smile and held out a huge paw, quite willing to 
sit down and talk — or listen. 

Ill 

She was glad, though, that Mr. Petersen didn’t know 
all about the boarder, for then her triumph wouldn’t 
have been quite so complete. . . . His affectionateness, 
for instance, and his absent-mindedness. He continually 
forgot to pay his board. Minnie would be forced to re- 
mind him, then he would immediately take out a pocket- 
book and pay a week’s board, apparently not realising 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


8i 


that he owed for two weeks, or perhaps three. He 
never got pp to date. It was a great worry. She had 
to buy things for him, food and the “root beer” he was 
so fond of, under the most dreadful difficulties. The 
tradespeople, knowing that she had a boarder, presup- 
posed cash, and grew more and more grudging. She 
couldn’t offend and perhaps lose the precious boarder by 
too strict insistence upon the letter of the contract; he 
was supposed to pay in advance, of course, but if he 
didn’t! . . . 

There were certain times when he really alarmed her, 
when there was something about him that she could not 
endure, something not fully understood but none the less 
comprehended. For, in spite of her soberness and her 
sedateness, Minnie was after all only a young girl, and 
a very ignorant one. She had nothing but her instincts 
and her cool temperament to protect her. She had, one 
might say, no sex at all, no trace of passion. She adored 
compliments and attentions, and very sensibly wanted a 
husband to work for her, but she recoiled with a quite 
morbid aversion from the idea of a kiss. Mr. Blair’s 
little attempts were repulsive to her. 

He used to propose walks after supper, but after one 
trial, she never accepted again. It was a horrible ex- 
perience. She was too innocent to know whether she 
had been insulted or whether it was all quite harmless, 
but she could not deny her own distress. She lay awake 
and wept — a very little — at the idea of marrying Mr. 
Blair. Of course, she could, and she would, but it wasn’t 
an agreeable prospect. 

She believed that he must have a fair enough income, 
for he did no work and yet had all he wanted. Tobacco 
and magazines and new neckties were his sole indul- 
gences, with an occasional bag of cheap candy. He was 
the most contented fellow alive. It was not possible that 


82 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


he suffered from the usual human “money worries.” His 
slowness in paying his board she attributed to his literari- 
ness. 


IV 

It was a fine morning, late in April; Minnie had fin- 
ished her work in the kitchen and was on the point of 
going up to “do” the bedrooms when Mr. Blair came in 
with a camera in his hand. 

“I’m going to try to get a picture of you,” he said. 

She said she was busy but he waved that aside. 

“Call your cats,” he said pompously, “I’ve got an 
idea.” 

He ordered her to sit on the back steps, with Michael 
in her arms and the others one on each side. 

“ ‘My Lady of the Cats,’ I’ll call it,” he said. And 
went on to tell her, not for the first time, of the artistic 
photographs he had had in various exhibitions. He told 
her that photography was quite as great an art as paint- 
ing. She knew nothing to the contrary; she had not a 
drop of artist blood in her veins; who knows if perhaps 
she wouldn’t have admired extravagantly his shadowy 
ladies in kimonos with light gleaming on rippling hair. 
She had observed that his subjects were always women, 
and that he had a strong penchant for glowing glimpses 
of white breasts and arms, and a certain unrestraint of 
attitude which disturbed her. He went as far as he dared 
with her. He wanted to take her picture climbing a 
ladder with an apronful of peaches, but somehow she 
knew that the peaches were a subterfuge, and so dis- 
couraged his artistic fancy. Then he proposed “Day 
Dreams,” in which she was to be lying, very much 
stretched out, on the sofa. That too she rejected, un- 
easily. 

This new idea, however, showed itself quite innocent 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


83 

from every side, and she willingly tried to help. It was 
an unruly group, though; it took a ,remendous time to 
prepare it and even at that it didn’t entirely satisfy him. 
He looked at them through the lens, came over to Minnie 
and looked down at her critically. 

“A little to this side,” he said, and, quite unnecessarily, 
put a hand under her chin and turned her head. 

‘‘You have a lovely neck,” he said, but though his tone 
was impersonal and professional, there was a repulsive 
look about his big, loose mouth. 

He would have had a severe rebuke, boarder or no 
boarder, if Mr. Petersen had not saved him. But at the 
sight of his horse coming along the drive, she stifled her 
anger. She would not, in his presence, admit a failing 
in this boarder whom she had so brilliantly evoked. She 
was uneasy, though, very uneasy, wondering if Mr. 
Petersen had seen. . . . 

“I stopped at the post-ofiflce,” he said, “and fetched 
your mail.” 

She thanked him and took the solitary letter from his 
hand. She had, of course, to ask him to dismount, which 
he did, and sat on the steps, chatting with Mr. Blair and 
stroking Michael, whose prototype he unknowingly was. 
Minnie apologised and opened the letter. 

Fatal letter! Fatal news! Without a word she handed 
it to Mr. Blair and went into the house. 

She reflected over it all that night, lying awake longer 
than she ever had before. She knew she was beaten, 
that she had failed. 

But this very defeat, the first she had yet known, had 
a curious effect upon her. She was humiliated and 
shaken, but far from despair. She had never felt so 
calm, so sensible, so competent. She wasted little time 
in anger or regret ; she turned her thoughts firmly toward 
the future, looking for a way out of her trouble. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


84 

And found one, an amazing one, the first of her re^ 
markable ventures. She planned it out in every detail 
that night, envisaged the obstacles and arranged her cam- 
paign against them. She certainly did not intend to stop 
where she was, for Mr. Petersen to laugh at, for the 
brilliant Frankie to pity. Wounded vanity, mixed with 
envy, pricked her. 

Her life really began that night. Until then she had 
been dormant, untried; now came her first opportunity 
to prove her spirit, and she rose to it magnificently, gal- 
lantly, ruthlessly. 


V 

The day before Christmas Frankie came home. 

A new Frankie, who blushed as she caught sight of 
Minnie at the end of the platform, engaged with Bess. 
Impossible that her Minnie should not notice the change 
in her, not read the happiness in her trembling smile. 

She hugged her passionately, and climbed into the 
buggy beside her. She was disappointed that Minnie 
noticed nothing unusual, hadn't a single question to ask. 
And Minnie, doggedly silent, was resentful because 
Frankie couldn't see that something was wrong. They 
did not speak for a long time; then Frankie, too happy 
not to be affectionate, turned a bright face to her sister. 

‘‘What's the news at home?" she asked. “How's 
Grandma? And Mr. Blair?" 

“Mr. Blair's gone," said Minnie, curtly. 

“Gone! Not really!" 

She was shocked to see tears in Minnie's eyes. 

“But, my dear, what happened?" 

Minnie turned away her head. 

“A letter from his wife. . . 

“So he was married! ..." 

“Yes. . . . He never mentioned it. . . . She wrote 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


B5 

that he’d written her again for his board money. She’d 
already given it to him twice, and couldn’t afford to give 
it again. She said she hoped he’d pay me, but that she 
couldn’t be responsible for his debts. That she was a 
business woman and found it hard enough to get along 
anyway. And advised me not to 'place too much confi- 
dence in his statements.’ She said she was sure that by 
this time his health was much improved ” 

"Was he ill, then?” 

"Ill ! He was as strong as an ox. He ate and ate. . . . 
And he just calmly went off. . . . He said he was going 
into the city to get some money from the bank, and 
would come back on the last train, and never did. And 
he owed for five weeks.” 

She wiped her eyes sternly and went on. 

"Grandma’s so mean and petty about it. Keeps saying 
T told you so. Miss.’ You know she never did. She 
liked him more than anyone did. I’ll never hear the end 
of it.” 

Frances did her best to console the frustrated Minnie. 

"Maybe he’ll come back,” she suggested, inanely. 

"He’d better not!” said Minnie, "Nasty, lazy cheat! 
Oh, Frankie, I will admit that I was deceived in that 
man !” 

Obviously this was no moment in which to tell her 
news. With patience and good temper Frankie waited, 
listened to the long and harrowing story of Mr. Blair 
and said what she could to heal her sister’s wound. She 
was really distressed about Minnie, she was so unlike her 
usual self ; she was severe and cold. It would be nothing 
less than cruel to tell the poor soul of her own good- 
fortune. 

So she kept it to herself all the afternoon. With the 
superstition so natural to the happy, she fancied she was 
making her happiness more secure, earning it, in a way. 


86 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


by repressing and disciplining herself, pretending to take 
an interest in the affairs of the household, effacing her- 
self and her important news. 

No one questioned her; they were absorbed in their 
own calamity. The old lady showed her a sort of diary 
of the expenses incurred by Mr. Blair, “to say nothing 
of the extra work.” She did crow over Minnie without 
mercy; she was vindicated, once more the infallible adult, 
competent to guide and rebuke youth. Minnie said very 
little; she had, however, a sinister air of having some- 
thing up her sleeve. 


VI 

At last they were alone in the bedroom. Minnie had 
just locked the door when Frances sprang at her, caught 
her in a tight embrace, and whispered : 

“Minnie!” 

“What?” asked Minnie sharply. 

“Minnie ! . . . Fm engaged T 

Minnie gasped. 

“Why, Frankie!” she cried. “How on earth! ...” 

“Oh, darling, Fve been longing to tell you! . . . I’m 
so happy ! If you only knew him, Minnie! You couldn’t 
help liking him. There’s something about him. . . 
He’s so dear and boyish 

“Who is he ?” Minnie asked. 

“He’s an Englishman. Very nice family, and all that. 
The nicest manners. And I consider him really hand- 
some. Just the type we’ve always liked, Minnie.” 

It occurred to Frances that Minnie was not so en- 
thusiastic as the occasion warranted. She felt a sudden 
fear that Minnie was jealous, felt herself neglected. 

“We’ve talked so much about you,” she hurried on. 
“You’re going to live with us after we’re married, and 
we’re going to do everything to make you happy. I told 


THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 


87 

Lionel what a little brick you were, slaving away here, 
and he said he knew he’d love you. And, oh, Minnie, 
you’re sure to love him !” 

Instead of answering Minnie got up and went to the 
window, stood there, staring out at the fields. 

‘‘Minnie!” cried her sister, “Please, Minnie, darling, 
say you’re glad!” 

“I am,” said Minnie, keeping her back turned, “I’m 
very glad you’re so happy.” 

“Please you be happy too ! I’m going to make Lionel 
write to you the instant I get back.” 

“Frankie,” said Minnie, “you’re not going back.” 

There was something unmistakably sinister in her voice 
now; Frances looked at her nervously. 

“What on earth do you mean?” she asked. 

“I mean just what I say. You’re not going back to 
New York. I’m going and you’ll have to stay here.” 

“But what . . . Minnie, what nonsense! I have my 
job and Lionel . . .” 

“They’ll have to get on without you,” said Minnie. 

“You’re crazy!” said her sister. “What would you 
do in New York? And who’ll take care of Grandma?” 

“You.” 

“I shouldn’t dream of giving up my job.” 

“You’ll have to. I tell you, Frankie, I’m going to 
have my turn. I’ve stopped here a whole year while 
you’ve been in the city and I’m sick and tired of it. I’m 
through. I’m going!” 

“You can’t be such a beast. After I’ve just told you 
about Lionel.” 

“He can come out here to see you.” 

“He can’t. He’s too poor. He couldn’t pay the fare.” 

“Then you’d better not bother about him. You cer- 
tainly couldn’t marry him if he’s as poor as that.” 


88 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


‘'Minnie, please be reasonable. I’ll just go back for 
a few weeks ” 

“You shan’t go back at all.” 

“I will! I won’t give in to your nonsense.” 

“It’s not nonsense; it’s justice. You’ve had a year 
and now I’m going to have a year. You didn’t care 
whether or not I wanted you to go, and now I don’t 
care whether you want me to go or not. I’m going.” 

Frances smiled scornfully. 

“I’ll go back as usual,” she said. 

“Oh, will you ! I’ve got a nice place myself.” 

“I don’t believe it! What sort of place?” 

“I’m going to be Aunt Irene’s companion,” she said 
calmly, “And I’m going to get just as much as you’re 
getting.” 

They fought it out passionately, forgot their dignity, 
forgot their love, raised their voices until the poor old 
lady at the end of the corridor heard them. They cried, 
too, tears of anger and hysteria; at last, from sheer 
exhaustion they fell asleep side by side in the bed they 
had slept in together for so many nights in harmony 
and affection, fell asleep hating each other, each utterly 
resolved upon her own way. 

VII 

But Minnie conquered. When Frances woke up, she 
found herself alone. Minnie had left a note on the 
pillow. 

''Gone on the early train. Grandma knows all 
about it, and agrees with me that I am doing per- 
fectly right.” 


BOOK TWO: FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 




i 


\ 


t 




t 






t 


i 

1 


i 


» 


i 




t 


> 4 


. ^ ‘ ; , . -j'A'' »■ ' . ; i- 


' k' 


. \ 


. 4 



CHAPTER NINE 


I 

Frankie was quite desperate with grief and anxiety. 
She rushed into the old lady’s room, bare-footed, in her 
nightdress, and denounced her in a storm of sobs. 

“How could you !” she cried. “How could you ! How 
did you and Minnie dare to arrange my life for me that 
way? . . . You didn’t know. . . . You couldn’t know 
— what plans I had. . . . How could you! You don’t 
know what you’ve done!” 

The old lady said that no great harm had been done. 

“It has! It has!” Frankie cried. “You don’t know! 
You’ve spoiled everything!” 

This the old lady didn’t believe; she asked for an ex- 
planation, and Frances would give none. 

“But Grandma!” she implored, “Grandma, trust me! 
Believe me when I say I’ve got to go back ! It’s terribly 
important. It means my whole life. Oh,. Grandma, 
please, please write to Minnie and make her come 
home !” 

“My dear child, I can’t. She wouldn’t come. And I 

must say I think she’s entitled to a little Don’t you 

think you’re rather selfish, Frances?” 

“Oh, stop!” Frances interrupted, rudely. “You don’t 
understand. It’s something ... I have to see about, 
something important.” 

“What can it be?” 

The old lady was indulgent; she fancied she scented 
a sentimental interest. 

“I can’t tell you — just now, anyway.” 

91 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


92 

Frances dried her eyes and looked at her grandmother 
with a new look, hard and clear. 

“You’ll have to make out alone for a few hours,” she 
said, “I’ve got to go in on that four-eight train. I’ll be 
back some time to-night.” 

She went into her room and, closing the door, flung 
herself down on the creaking bed, not to cry, but to think, 
to plan for him. All morning the breakfast dishes were 
unwashed, the beds unmade, nothing touched in the 
house. It was noon when a curious sound startled 
Frankie. She fancied she heard a step in the passage. 

She flung open the door, to see a poor, trembling little 
figure come out of her grandmother’s room. 

“Grandma!” she shrieked, and flew to catch her and 
half carry her back to her bed, reproaching her bitterly, 
tenderly, while she got her clothes off. She noticed with 
intolerable remorse how clumsily the things were put on 
and the scanty hair twisted up. 

“Grandma,” she cried. “You know you shouldn’t! 
Suppose you had slipped! It was dreadful of you!” 

She saw to her horror that there were tears in the 
poor thing’s eyes and her feeble voice quavered. 

“Frances,” she said, “I couldn’t stand it. Both of you 
going off . . . neither of you wanting to stay with me. 
. . . I felt I didn’t care what happened to me. . . . 

And ” she broke into a weak little sob as she came to 

her last and worst grief, “one o’clock and the house not 
touched! I just couldn’t lie abed any longer!” 

“No, Granny dear, I know! I’ll do ever5d:hing right 
away. Only lie down and rest, won’t you? I’ll do 
everything before I go.” 

The old lady patted her hand. 

“Won’t you ask Sally Washington to sit in the kitchen 
while you’re gone?” she asked. “I’m so nervous about 
fire.” 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


93 

Frankie hurried across to the cottage, but Sally couldn’t 
come ; she was sick in bed and there was no one available 
but young Norman Washington, aged nine, who was 
guaranteed by his mother to be trustworthy. 

The old lady, however, rejected him. 

‘‘Worse than no one!” she cried. “A boy! He’ll eat 
up all my preserves. And goodness knows what he’ll 
break.” 

It also occurred to her that he was quite likely, in his 
quality as boy, to set fire to the house; in fact, as she 
considered it longer, she declared it certain that he would 
do so. 

She was in a pitifully nervous state. She entreated 
Frances to dress her again and help her downstairs, so 
that she could wait there, where, in case of fire, she could 
manage somehow to get out. She couldn’t eat anything 
for lunch. She sat propped up in bed, her trembling 
fingers moving ceaselessly, her watery eyes staring va- 
cantly, in dim anxiety, consumed with dread, with the 
horror of her own helplessness. As she passed by the 
door, Frances could see her there, each time more in- 
tolerably pitiful. Until, one time, she saw her press her 
poor, clawlike hand against her mouth. . . . Somehow 
that decided Frances; she couldn't leave her; couldn’t 
endure the idea of her alone there until two in the morn- 
ing, when the last train would have brought her back. 
No; she couldn’t go. She went into the room, hard and 
brusque again. 

“I won’t go to the city,” she said. “I’ll just harness up 
Bess somehow and go to the village and send a tele- 
gram.” 

All over — all finished. She knew it. She had no hope, 
no illusion about the matter, only the certainty that her 
terribly brief time of happiness was done. 


94 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


II 

Happiness which existed now only in her memory, in 
time to grow incredible even there. . . . 

One year! 

She remembered very well when she had made that 
first visit to Miss Eppendorfer. She had never before 
been alone in New York, didn’t know how to find the 
address, had to ask one policeman after another, and 
try in a sort of agony to comprehend the directions they 
gave. And when she had arrived, her terror of the un- 
known city was supplanted by a worse one; suppose she 
didn’t get the job, that the authoress didn’t like her, and 
she had to return home, shamefully defeated. 

She had plenty of time to contemplate this, waiting in 
the sitting-room of Miss Eppendorfer’s flat. An insolent 
coloured girl showed her in and left her there without a 
word. She was almost ill from nervousness ; she watched 
the door without stirring for fifteen minutes or so, then, 
when no one came, grew bold enough to look about her. 
It was a small and rather dark room, furnished in a style 
new to her — the ubiquitous Mission style. Little square 
chairs of imitation weathered oak, with imitation leather 
seats, studded with gilt nails, fit for an authoress from 
the Middle West to sit in while she laughed indulgently 
at Victorian mahogany. Mock austerity, mock simplicity, 
a crowd of cheap and monotonous stuff, all square and 
squat; plain curtains, bookcases with sets of books se- 
lected always by authorities, and never by the owner. 
Replica of a thousand rooms, mirror of a thousand souls, 
a room which signified and expressed nothing. It was 
the first cheaply-furnished room Frances had ever en- 
tered, and she was innocently impressed with it. The 
good taste she possessed was not innate, it was tradi- 
tional; she wasn’t able to judge the unknown. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


95 

The mistress of all this came in an hour late. She was 
a thin, blonde woman with hollow cheeks and a sweet, 
sweet smile ; she hurried forward, holding out both hands 
with a profuse cordiality that surprised Frances. 

‘Ts this the little country girl who’s going to do so 
much for me?” 

Blushing but courageous, Frances made some sort of 
answer, her candid eyes fixed on the face before her. 
If she hadn’t known, she might have thought that this 
haggard woman with bleached hair was “not quite nice.” 
But she knew that her rural standards couldn’t be ap- 
plied everywhere. She wasn’t a bumpkin. . . . 

“Sit down,” Miss Eppendorfer invited, “and we’ll 
have tea while we chat.” 

It was the first time Frances had ever had tea; it was 
an institution as yet unknown in the suburbs during her 
girlhood, and utterly undeveloped in Brownsville Land- 
ing; there, when one had guests in the afternoon, they 
were splendidly served with lemonade and good cake. 
Tea and toast would have been almost an insult. 

The authoress had to fetch everything herself from 
the kitchen. 

“I don’t dare to disturb that black wretch,” she 
whispered to Frances. “She’s only looking for an excuse 
to go, and then where shall I be ? / couldn’t boil an egg, 
could you?” 

Frances said that she could. 

“Well, my dear,” said the authoress, when she had got 
her samovar started, “tell me about yourself.” 

But she didn’t need much telling; aside from the letter 
she had had from the librarian in Brownsville Landing, 
she could see in one shrewd glance that Frances would 
“do”; was able to realise, as only an imitation could, 
how honest, how genuine was this girl. 

She engaged her then and there, said she was “strange- 


96 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

ly attracted” by her. And urged her to take up her 
duties at once. 

“Send home for your things,” she advised, “and settle 
right down to-night in your comfy little room. That's 
the way I always like to do things — on the spur of the 
moment.” 

“Ld like to, but I couldn’t. They’d worry at home.” 

“Send a telegram, honey,” Miss Eppendorfer sug- 
gested. 

It was her first telegram, too, and it gave her a delight- 
ful sense of adventure, and of defiance, for she knew 
that Minnie would disapprove. 

Miss Eppendorfer opened the door of a tiny room, 
which, she said, was to be Frankie’s “very own.” 

“Isn’t it dearf^ she asked. “I think I must have known 
when I furnished it, that someone just like you was 
coming to me some day. It expresses you, don’t you 
think so?” 

At first Frances thought it a delightful room, furnished 
all in wicker even to the bed and decorated in gay chintz ; 
there were candles on the dressing table with rose-covered 
shades which at once took her eye, and a brocade glove 
box. She felt that she would be tremendously happy in 
such a nest. 

And then, as she laid her hat on the bed, she was 
startled, dismayed, at the sight of the pillow-cases. Sus- 
picions aroused, her glance travelled > from corner to 
corner, and she apprehended the appalling griminess of 
the place. Griminess not confined to this room of “her 
very own,” as she was soon to discover. 

She had turned back the lace-trimmed chintz bedspread 
and was suspiciously examining the sheets when Miss 
Eppendorfer came in again with a filmy nightdress deco- 
rated with pale green ribbons, a boudoir cap and an 
elaborate negligee. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


97 

“Put these on now and be comfy/^ she urged, “and 
we’ll have a nice little supper, all alone together.” 

She herself had got into a lace tea-gown over a torn 
lace petticoat and quilted satin slippers which weren’t 
high enough to hide the holes in her stockings. . . . 

“Thank you,” said Frances, “but I’m quite comfortable 
as I am.” 

She felt that her neat linen blouse and dark skirt gave 
her a sort of advantage; anyway she couldn't have gone 
trailing about in a wrapper, she wasn’t that sort. 

Disillusionment progressed rapidly. She sat down at 
the supper table, hungry and curious, and disposed to 
be charitable; but the dirtiness of the tablecloth was 
flagrant and her napkin had obviously been used before. 
And her glass had a milky ring inside it. . . . She was 
not over-fastidious, or inclined to give great importance 
to domestic matters, but she had a genuine passion for 
cleanliness. She couldn’t help being disgusted. Still, 
she reflected, it was no doubt all due to the scornful col- 
oured girl, and she consoled herself by thinking that per- 
haps, when not engaged in literary work, she could look 
after things a bit. 

She put on the ribbon-trimmed nightdress and went to 
sleep between the dubious sheets, a little homesick for 
the big, airy bedroom where Minnie was lying, and the 
darkness and the quiet. Her window opened on to a 
court; she could hear voices talking and phonographs 
playing, and the light from Miss Eppendorfer’s room 
shone under her door and disturbed her. She couldn’t 
compose herself, she was excited and confused, and 
imagined that she lay awake for hours. 

Miss Eppendorfer came in to wake her up the next 
morning, in a state of great excitement, still wearing 
the trailing tea-gown. She told Frankie that the col- 
oured girl had gone; and she related a long story of 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


98 

wrongs and grievances; the girl drank, lied, pilfered, 
was even engaged in complicated plots against one of the 
best and kindest mistresses extant. Miss Eppendorfer 
gave a list of her benefactions: a pink hat, a dotted veil, 
blouses, shoes, and still ! 

‘‘She used to say all sorts of things about me over 
the telephone, if anyone rang up when I was out. And, 
my dear, the things she told that hall-boy 

Frankie pitied her distress and was eager to soothe her 
excitement. 

“Never mind!” she said, “We’ll find another. And 
now wouldn’t you like me to make a cup of coffee for 
you ?” 

“Oh, I would, my dear ! I’m no good till I’ve had my 
coffee, and I can’t make it decently myself.” 

She sat down on the bed, and though Frances waited 
impatiently for a chance to get up, she showed no signs 
of moving. Nothing could have induced Frankie to 
dress in her presence. A faint annoyance crept over her. 
She got out of bed on the other side, gathered up her 
clothes and went into the bathroom, with a brusque excuse. 

She came out, stiffer and straighter than ever, and 
went into the tiny kitchen to make the coffee. It was 
the filthiest place; roaches running over everything, 
grease, dust, crumbs. 

“That girl was a very poor servant,” she said severely. 

Miss Eppendorfer was sitting on a corner of the table, 
swinging her slippered feet. 

“I spoil them,” she said. “I’m too good to them. And 
then I don’t keep after them. You have to, if you want 
anything done. . . . But with my writing, of course I 
can’t keep my mind on that sort of thing very well.” 

She praised the coffee extravagantly, and, as she drank 
it, explained to Frankie that she was very, very nervous, 
and that a scene such as she had had with that dreadful 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 99 

girl upset her beyond measure. Frances noticed her 
trembling hands, her quick breath, and accepted this 
nervousness, and, in her competent way, went about mak- 
ing her comfortable. 

They had a rather pleasant day together. The hall- 
boy was sent to fetch “Jennie,’’ who had often before 
come to fill in gaps, and while she was creaking and 
wheezing, scrubbing and mopping her faithful way round 
the flat, the authoress lay on a sofa and talked to Frankie. 
She told her about her work, which so far consisted of 
three short stories and two very successful novels. 

“But I’m really only beginning,” she said. 

(Frances thought privately that she was rather old for 
any sort of beginning.) 

Her latest book was called “The Lonely Woman.” 
She gave a copy to Frances and begged for a candid 
opinion after she had read it. 

“But I’m not a judge,” Frances told her earnestly, “I 
don’t know anything about literature. Only that I love 
books and reading.” 

“My dear,” said Miss Eppendorfer, “I saw at once how 
sensible and level-headed you were. I want your 
opinion !” 

Noon came. Miss Eppendorfer sighed as the clock 
struck. 

“I do not feel equal to going out,” she said, ‘T’d rather 
do without lunch. Of course, there’s plenty in the house, 
but Jennie can’t cook a thing.” 

Frances was quite willing to get a lunch ready, and to 
bring it on a tray to the nervous authoress. Also tea 
and supper. Otherwise there was nothing to do but sit 
and talk. 


100 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


III 

Frances would have found it difficult to explain what 
her secretarial duties were during that year. Principally 
to go with Miss Eppendorfer everywhere that she went 
— to the shops, the bank, the dentist. She was too nerv- 
ous to go out alone ; she wouldn’t stir without her “little 
pal”; and, as far as Frances could see, she had no other 
friends. There were a few people who telephoned, and 
who very rarely dropped in to see her, but she never got 
invitations of any sort. It puzzled Frances; she could 
see no reason why Miss Eppendorfer shouldn’t be popu- 
lar; in the first place, she was a quite successful writer, 
which should have brought some sort of fame, and in 
the second place, she had an excellent disposition. They 
lived together, all day and every day, month after month, 
those two women, without a sharp or a violent word, with 
the exception of the two famous Scenes, to be described 
later. And these didn’t exactly count, for the authoress 
was not altogether responsible, altogether herself then. 
... Of course, there were times when relations were a 
bit strained, but not often. And the remarkable, the ad- 
mirable thing was, that they were not congenial, not in 
any way suited to each other ; it was simply their common 
kindliness and good temper that so preserved harmony. 

Lack of friends was not the only point to puzzle 
Frankie; there were other mysteries. It was a long time 
before she could understand Miss Eppendorfer, or ap- 
praise her with any justice. At first she saw much to 
disgust her. The slatternliness, above all, the shameless 
lack of pride. She used to look across the supper table 
at the pallid, faded blonde creature, with uncombed hair, 
still dressed in a wrapper over her nightdress, and won- 
der how, how . . . ! Even this, though, she learned to 
condone when she saw that it sprang not so much from 
neglect as from awful weariness. The poor soul was 


lOI 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 

either hectic with excitement, flying from shop to shop, 
restaurant to restaurant, taking every meal away from 
home for perhaps a week, or else she couldn’t make up 
her mind even to walk round the corner for a breath 
of air, would stay shut up in the flat for days. She 
dressed well enough when she went out ; she spent money 
lavishly on her clothes and wore them with a conspicuous 
and rather vulgar sort of style, but she didn’t really 
care; had no sort of decent pride in her body. Didn’t 
trouble much about cleanliness, for instance. 

Her book, too, was a shock to Frances. It was the 
story of a woman living on the prairies — the Lonely 
Woman — alone with a stolid husband; then a young 
clergyman stopped there on his way somewhere, and 
chapter after chapter recounted the wiles, the lures of the 
lonely woman to rouse his passion, to destroy his honour. 
In the end she got him, triumphed for a few lurid days, 
and then tried to run away with him. But they were 
overtaken by a blizzard and died, frozen to death. The 
pursuing husband saw them, sitting clasped in each 
other’s arms, and shot them, not knowing that they were 
already dead, and then gave himself up to the police and 
was hanged. It was what her publishers called “palpitat- 
ing” — very. Nothing was left to the imagination. 

Frances thought it awful; she hadn’t been trained to 
see the poetry in lust. All she could say in praise was 
that the prairie scenes seemed very true to life, and Miss 
Eppendorfer assured her that they were. 

“I’ve lived out there,” she said. She often told scraps 
of her past life, but they wouldn’t piece together; some- 
times one story directly contradicted another. She had 
been married, sometimes she said once, sometimes twice, 
and her husband — or first husband — had been “unspeak- 
able.” She had divorced him, or he her. Sometimes she 
described her childhood as ideally happy, her parents as 
wealthy and indulgent; then, once, she told Frances she 


102 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


was the daughter of a wretched woman who had lived 
with a worker in the Chicago stockyards. Yet all this 
didn’t impress Frances as lying; it was too vague, too 
aimless; she couldn’t help a stupid feeling that Miss 
Eppendorfer didn’t know exactly what had happened to 
her. Which was of course absurd. . . . And she was 
sure that the stories which told of want, pain, and 
struggle were the true ones, that the poor woman had 
suffered. 

Talent she undoubtedly possessed. Although Frances 
detested the persistent fleshliness of her stories, she had a 
generous admiration for the gift itself. She would watch 
her writing, almost with awe, wondering where the ideas 
came from, from what unfathomable reservoir she drew 
so easily. She had no style, little art, couldn’t even use 
the language properly ; simply she put on paper the visions 
of her curious mind. She sometimes used to cry as she 
wrote. And, although her books were oversensual, her 
talk wasn’t. She avoided those topics which distressed 
the austere Frances. 


IV 

It was not for six months that Frances got her first 
clue to this baffling creature. She tried to study her, to 
understand her, why she had no friends, no “circle” such 
as she had imagined literary people always had, why she 
was sometimes so slovenly, sometimes so extravagantly 
dressed, why sometimes she couldn’t bear to go out, and 
sometimes couldn’t endure staying at home. 

It was after one of her infrequent visits home. Miss 
Eppendorfer hated to let her go, and would never go 
out during her absence, which naturally used to distress 
Frankie and cause her to cut her time at home unduly 
short. She did everything possible before leaving, and 
always saw to it that Jennie was there, under a solemn 
promise not to leave for a minute until she got back; 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


103 


then with soothing assurances, as if Miss Eppendorfer 
were a very nervous child, she would pack her bag and 
hurry off, oppressed and serious, worrying over the 
household she had left. 

This time, when she came back, Jennie didn’t answer 
the bell. She rang again and again, but couldn’t hear 
a sound. Then she questioned the hall-boy and he told 
her Jennie had left that morning, but that Miss Eppen- 
dorfer was at home. 

“Maybe she’s asleep,” he said, with a grin. 

Frances turned white, remembering all the stories she 
had read of suicides and murders. 

“Isn’t there any way I can get in?” she cried. 

The boy leisurely suggested going to the flat below 
and asking leave to go up through the fire escape. He 
didn’t offer to do it for her; he was, on the contrary, 
as indifferent, as contemptuous as he could well be. 

Fortunately the window on the fire escape was open 
and Frances got in without difficulty. And rushed into 
Miss Eppendorfer’s room. 

She was asleep, her mouth open, her hair in her eyes, 
lying on the outside of the bed with no covering but a 
gauzy nightdress. The. room was full of a smell un- 
familiar to Frances, but she surmised, even before she 
saw the empty bottle. 

Whiskey. 

Somehow she got the poor thing warmly and decently 
covered up and the horrible littered room tidied. Then 
she went into her own room and sank into a chair, for 
her knees would support her no longer. She couldn’t 
think about it, her intelligence seemed to have fled, to 
be suspended, waiting. She was conscious of nothing 
but horror and a reluctant and painful compassion. She 
felt that now, after this, she could never, never leave 
Miss Eppendorfer. 


CHAPTER TEN 


I 

Frances did not mention this shortcoming of Miss 
Eppendorfer’s at home, and it was never openly referred 
to between the authoress and herself. But Miss Eppen- 
dorfer ceased to be so careful, she was even relieved that 
Frances knew her vice and that she didn’t have to live 
in fear of her discovering it. The whiskey came openly 
with the grocery orders, then vanished into her own 
room. She was never to be seen drinking it, but there 
were many mornings when she couldn’t be awakened till 
noon, and when she did get up, she would be in a state 
that wrung Frankie’s kindly heart. The poor shaky, 
weeping thing, moaning about her aching head, swallow- 
ing her dreadful “headache cures,” and waiting in agony 
till relief came. . . . Frances had to sit by her, holding 
her hand and trying to quiet and cheer her. She 
struggled against disgust, but in vain; she would reach 
the point where the whole affair seemed intolerable, and 
she was determined to go home, and then Miss Eppen- 
dorfer would suddenly change, get up in the morning, 
dress elaborately and take her “little pal” out for a day 
of amusement. She was at such times so ingratiatingly 
kind that Frances put aside all thought of leaving her. 
No doubt these intervals of hectic excitement were her 
periods of reform; in fact, she almost admitted it. 

“I have to keep on going,” she said, “to take my mind 
off things.” 

Curious that Frances should find herself so placed, 
Frances who had been brought up to regard drunkenness 
104 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 105 

in a man as a bestial crime, and in a woman, a thing 
almost impossibly awful. She sometimes wondered at 
herself, how was it that she didn't blame Miss Eppen- 
dorfer, but looked upon her failing as if it were a dis- 
ease? She felt herself very old, very experienced. In 
spite of her pity and real unhappiness over the thing, 
there was in it a deep, secret satisfaction; it was, she 
felt. Knowledge, Life; she was learning, developing. 
She had so far, far outgrown Minnie and her grand- 
mother and their standards! She was tolerant, worldly- 
wise; there wasn’t, she believed, much more for her to 
learn. . . . 

The future rather worried her. This couldn’t last for- 
ever, and after this, what? She was not gaining experi- 
ence that would be of any practical value to her in any 
other position. She was not able to save money; at the 
end of six months she found herself no better off than 
when her career had begun. And she was so ambitious, 
so passionately anxious to succeed, to be important and 
famous. She gave her problem much serious thought. 
One thing was certain; she couldn’t and wouldn't leave 
Miss Eppendorfer under the present circumstances; the 
only thing was for her to prepare herself, to be ready 
for something better when there was a change of some 
sort. She presented her scheme to Miss Eppendorfer as 
tactfully as possible. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “if I knew how to 
type better and faster, and something of shorthand. I’d 
be ever so much more useful ... to you, and — and in 
general ... I wrote to a business school near here, and 
I think, if you don’t mind. I’ll take a course there in 
shorthand and typing. Three evenings a week, from 
seven to nine.” 

But Miss Eppendorfer protested, begged her to put 
it off and not to leave her so much alone. She was 


io6 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

afraid of this plan, afraid that she would, by it, lose 
this girl she so much needed. 

‘‘Just wait a month, dear, won’t you? Till the days 
are longer?” 

It seemed an idiotic reason to Frances, and she looked 
obstinate. 

“Perhaps I could take the course with you,” Miss Ep- 
pendorfer suggested, “I think I’d enjoy it.” 

That idea didn’t please Frankie at all; the thought of 
going to school with anyone of Miss Eppendorfer’s age, 
appearance and temperament was appalling. She 
imagined what people would say — how they would be 
ridiculed. She was obliged to postpone the plan for a 
time, until she could think of a different way of present- 
ing it. . . 

Chance gave her an opportunity very soon. One 
morning the telephone rang, in itself a rare happening, 
and she hurried to answer it, as the authoress was asleep. 

“Is this Miss Eppendorfer?” enquired a high, loud 
voice with an exaggerated London accent. “Oh, her 
secretary! Very well! You will please to tell Miss 
Eppendorfer that her cousin Kurt Hassler from Ham- 
burg is here, and would like to call.” 

“She’s not awake yet,” Frances explained, “but if 
you’ll leave your number ” 

“The Ritz,” he replied haughtily. “Find it in the tele- 
phone directory. I am here until one.” 

She had scarcely replaced the receiver when Miss 
Eppendorfer opened the door of her room and stood 
smiling absent-mindedly at her. 

“I thought I heard the telephone,” she said. 

“You did. It was your cousin from Hamburg. He 
wants to see you.” 

Miss Eppendorfer became immensely excited, and in- 
sisted upon Frankie’s calling him up at once. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 107 

‘‘Fm too nervous,” she said. “Tell him to come to- 
night for dinner at seven.” 

He accepted the invitation, and the authoress was de- 
lighted. 

“I haven’t seen him since he was a child,” she told 
Frankie, “but I’ve heard lots about him. He went to 
Heidelberg, and then he went into his father’s business 
and he’s done wonderfully well, they say. He speaks 
English, French and Spanish perfectly.” 

“Are you a German then?” Frankie asked. 

“No; my father was, but I’m not. I’m American 
through and through. I can’t even speak German. If 
Kurt didn’t speak English, I don’t know what I’d do.” 

While she drank her coffee. Miss Eppendorfer in- 
genuously confided to Frances her great desire to im- 
press Mr. Hassler. 

“You see, his family — ^my father’s cousins, over in 
Germany, always looked down on us. They were as 
rude as they could be. You know how proud those old 
commercial families are. Why, my dear, Kurt Hassler 
would never have dreamed of putting his foot inside my 
door if I hadn’t got a name for myself with this writing. 
So I’m going to show him that I’m somebody, after all. 
That I know how to do things rights 

Jennie was fetched to wait on the table, and supper 
was ordered from a restaurant nearby, with an extrava- 
gant variety of wines. Miss Eppendorfer dressed herself 
in her very best, and implored Frances to do the same, 
but Frances, although expecting a bearded and majestic 
man in evening dress, refused to put on any of the 
authoress’s finery. 

“He’s not coming to see me,” she cried, “and, anyway, 
I’d rather look like what I am.” 

Proud humility! And wasn’t she aware all the time 
that in her fresh blouse and blue serge skirt she utterly 


io8 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

eclipsed Miss Eppendorfer, she with her clear brown 
skin and her beautifully honest eyes, with her youth and 
strength and dignity? 

She had resented Mr. Hassler’s manner over the tele- 
phone and she had only to take one look at him in per- 
son to hate and detest him forever. He was unexpectedly 
young, not so old as herself, she imagined, but with a. 
self-assurance seldom attained by other races this side 
of forty. He was handsome enough, but detestably 
arrogant, a smooth-shaven, blonde-crested boy with up- 
turned nose and wide, impudent mouth. He was stupid 
and pompous, couldn’t talk about anything but himself 
and his “world-export business” as he called it, yet Fran- 
ces saw that he had wit enough to take the measure of 
his cousin. His gallantry was so obviously mocking 
that she burned with shame for the poor haggard, painted 
woman who gulped it down. It was really torment for 
her to look on. 

Alas, poor Frankie ! She had yet to learn of Miss Ep- 
pendorfer’s second great weakness! 

II 

After that evening everything was changed. Miss Ep- 
pendorfer herself a quite different person. She was as 
good-tempered, as kindly as ever, but so silly that 
Frankie’s own amiability began to wear thin. She wrote 
no more, all her talk was of clothes, of hair dressers, of 
manicures. She would spend all morning sitting at her 
dressing table, polishing her nails and “jabbering,” as 
her secretary mentally called her talking. She was full 
of the affectations of a happy young girl, was impulsive, 
whimsical, even pouted. And for whom but that ob- 
noxious little Hamburger, young enough to be her son I 

He called every evening, and made it plain to Frankie 
that he wanted to be alone with his cousin. So she with- 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


109 

drew to her bedroom and tried to read, to ignore that 
light, hysterically gay voice answering his impudent 
compliments. 

“Can’t she see?” Frankie used to ask herself, almost in 
tears. “Doesn’t she know he’s laughing at her? Oh, 
what an idiot she’s making of herself, poor old thing!” 

He and Frances hated each other. She stared at him 
with cold contempt, he looked her up and down insolently ; 
they never spoke unless it couldn’t be avoided. Unfor- 
tunately Frances had to listen to a great deal about him 
from Miss Eppendorfer, how successful and brilliant he 
was in business, how supremely well-educated, how 
fastidious and aristocratic, how irresistible to the fair 
sex. He told her about his “affairs” and she insisted 
upon telling Frankie, although the latter said bluntly 
enough that she wasn’t interested. It was necessary that 
she should be shown what a remarkable conquest Miss 
Eppendorfer had made. She was forced to hear about 
the Russian princess, the awfully exclusive Parisienne, 
and above all about the eminent and very chic Damen in 
Wien. The colossal success he had had! Frances had 
either to consider him a liar, or the ladies on the conti- 
nent of Europe as pitifully lacking in taste. 

He very soon began coming to dinner every night, and 
Miss Eppendorfer went to great trouble to secure a cook 
who was not only a German, but a German from. the only 
correct part of Germany for cooks to inhabit. She 
extorted big wages and made life wretched with her 
shrewishness, but her delicacies were supposed to atone 
for all this. Expenses mounted steadily; Frances had not 
imagined that Miss Eppendorfer had so much money. 
She bought new clothes continually, and flowers, and very 
expensive wines. Mr. Hassler was not absent for a single 
night for two months after the coming of the German 
cook, but not once did he invite his cousin to go any- 


no 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


where with him, or did he bring her flowers or sweets. 

Frances could not comprehend this thing; she thought 
she did, but she didn’t, in the least. It was the sort of 
affair not related in romantic novels; there was nothing 
romantic about it. It might be classified as a 'dove af- 
fair,” although it would have been confoundedly hard 
to find any love in it. . . . Frankie simply thought that 
Miss Eppendorfer was “silly” about the young man, and 
anxious to impress him, and that he was attracted by the 
good dinners. 

Her first real suspicions awoke when she was check- 
ing up the stubs in the authoress’s cheque book, which 
she did every month when the vouchers came back from 
the bank. And she saw, no less than five times, cheques 
made out to “Kurt Hassler” for' fifty dollars, sixty dol- 
lars, up to a hundred. It gave her a vague feeling of 
uneasiness, which she couldn’t shake off, although she 
assured herself that it was all “business.” 

Then she and Miss Eppendorfer had the first of their 
quarrels. The cook wanted a day off, and Miss Eppen- 
dorfer gaily asked Frankie if she wouldn’t cook one of 
her dear little suppers for “Kurtie.” Frances flushed. 

“Why don’t you go to a restaurant?” she suggested. 

“Kurtie’s so sick of restaurants. I told him what 
heavenly things you used to fix up for me, and he said 
he’d like to see what you could do. He’s ” 

“I’m sorry,” said Frances, “but I’d rather not.” 

“My dear ! Please 1 I’ve practically promised.” 

“I can’t help it. I couldnt/' 

“But why?'' 

Frances looked at her indignantly. 

“I wouldn’t cook for that man!'' she said, severely. 

“What is your objection to him, may I ask?” enquired 
Miss Eppendorfer, with sudden frigidity. 

“I’d rather not say.” 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


insist.” 

‘‘I’m not going to say. It has nothing to do with the 
case, anyway. I don’t mind — I never mind doing things 
for you. But ... I should think you’d know better 
than to ask me to cook for your guests. I’m supposed 
to be your secretary, Miss Eppendorfer, not your ser- 
vant.” 

She was startled by the expression on Miss Eppen- 
dorfer’s face. 

“A hell of a secretary you are!” she screamed. “You 
don’t know a damned thing. You’re no more use to me 
than a parrot. You take my money and never do a stroke 
of work. You’re as lazy as a nigger.” And much, much 
more, of abuse that grew fouler and fouler, most of it 
unintelligible to the girl. She stood motionless, white 
as a sheet, dumb with horror, her own little anger swept 
away on this violent torrent. She never forgot the scene, 
or the words. 

“Oh!” she whispered. “Oh! . . . How terrible! . . . 
Oh, God, how terrible!” 

For she had a dreadful feeling of helplessness, of being 
in a world where her dignity was of no avail. She cried 
forlornly for Minnie and her grandmother, even for her 
mother, dead a score of years. 

She had packed her trunk and was absolutely deter- 
mined to go home that night when Miss Eppendorfer 
came to the door, imploring to be let in. She, too, was 
in tears, streaming with tears, and she went down on her 
knees to Frances. 

“Forgive me!” she cried. “Forgive me! Frances, dar- 
ling, you know how terribly nervous I am ! Don’t be too 
hard on me. I can’t live without you !” 

She was so dreadfully upset that Frances had to get 
her to bed and give her a dose of some powerful sedative 
she used for her “nerve attacks,” and telephoned to 


1 12 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

Hassler not to come. And in the end she agreed not to 
go home. 

But she remained very grave and thoughtful. She 
went out to supper at a little French table d’hote nearby, 
came back and went to bed, without seeing Miss Eppen- 
dorfer again. 

She was waked up late that night, though, by her. The 
poor creature was crying again, standing by Frankie’s 
bed. 

“Oh, Frances !” she moaned, “I’m so wretched ! I wish 
I were dead!” 

Frances asked what was the matter. 

“Kurt was so nasty to me,” she sobbed. “I rang him 
up after you’d gone out, and he came. But he wouldn’t 
stay a minute. He just looked at the supper and went 
away. I tried! I had sardines and caviare and fruit, 
all fixed in a dainty way. . . . Oh, Frances!'' 

Her voice rose to a shriek that alarmed Frances. 

“Don’t get excited!” she entreated. ‘‘Just tell me, 
quietly, all about it. First let me close the window.” 

It was an incoherent tale; he had told her that she 
didn’t know how to dress, that he wouldn’t be seen in a 
public place with her, that at her age she shouldn’t try 
to wear pink. Told her she looked vulgar. That he 
couldn’t see a trace in her conversation of the brains he 
imagined were required in novel writing. 

Frances was exasperated. 

“Why in the world do you bother with him!” she 
cried. “He’s — I’m sure you’re deceived in him. Why 
don’t you let him go?” 

Miss Eppendorfer began to weep anew. 

“I love him!” she declared. And seeing Frankie’s 
shocked face, she added, with humane motive, “We’re 
going to be married !” 

Frances believed it. 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


I 

After this, Miss Eppendorfer was not able to make 
any further objection to Frankie’s study. 

‘T may as well tell you now,” said Frankie, ‘'that I 
shan’t — I couldn’t stay with you after you’re married to 
that man.” 

“But it won’t be for a long time,” Miss Eppendorfer 
protested. 

A very long time indeed ! Dimly, in her muddled head, 
she realised how much she wanted and needed Frankie, 
even foresaw the day when Mr. Kurt Hassler would go 
the way of other men to whom she had been so generous, 
and she would be quite alone. She tped to bribe her 
not to learn shorthand, she didn’t want her to be able 
to find another place; she said it would tire her, hurt 
her eyes, everything she could imagine. 

Frances was firm. 

“You’re not alone in the evenings now,” she said, 
“and I’ve got to think of my own future.” 

“I’ll always look after you ” 

“I don’t want to be looked after, thank you. Please 
don’t be unreasonable !” 

Miss Eppendorfer cried a little and consented. 

II 

Frances found it a curious experience. She wrote 
home to Minnie, after the first week : 

“I’m a sort of grandmother here in the business school. 
All the rest are little girls with pigtails and hair ribbons. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


114 

and little boys in short trousers. You can imagine how 
I feel, so old and sedate. And even in size ! They’re all 
so stunted. I tower above my tiny desk. I’m taller even 
than any of the teachers, and quite a different colour, at 
least five degrees redder. 

^T thought I knew something about typing, but I’ve 
had to start all over again, and learn the ‘touch system.’ 
And shorthand! Oh, Minnie! I’m so stupid, you can’t 
think. The others learn like eager little trained animals. 
They can’t speak decently, or spell, of course, but what 
does that matter? They can put down on paper what 
they hear someone say, and copy it off, without the 
trouble of understanding. I foresee that I shall be here 
for years while all the little boys and girls pass on and 
out, and become bank presidents.” 

It was quite true that she wasn’t quick at learning her 
new trade. She was studious by nature, and painstaking, 
but her hand was not ready. She was more discouraged 
than she cared to tell. 

Life seemed, just then, a rather miserable affair. Her 
ambition was balked by her slowness in learning, and she 
began to think that she would never be able to do better 
than she was doing with Miss Eppendorfer. A filler of 
odd jobs, employed principally because she was person- 
ally agreeable And, somehow, Miss Eppendor- 

fer’s talk of love made her lonely and sad. She thought 
of her twenty-three years, and was terrified by the fear 
that she would never be loved. She longed so to be loved I 
What chance, though? She went from Miss Eppen- 
dorfer’s flat, which no man entered but “Kurtie,” to the 
night school, where the oldest male was perhaps nineteen. 

A situation ripe for the coming of the hero. As usual 
he came. Or perhaps, the one who came had to be 
he. . . . 

It was the end of June, and after two months of effort. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


115 

Frankie still sat among the beginners. She had developed 
a new trouble. She was able now to scratch desperately 
while the teacher dictated, almost keeping pace with her, 
but she could never afterward read what she had written. 
She was trying in vain to type a letter she had taken 
down, in which all she could distinguish was “Dear Sir 
and the “14th inst.” when she heard someone sit down 
in the seat next her, which had till then been vacant. 
Naturally she glanced up. It was, as she later wrote to 
Minnie, a “real grown-up human being,” a tall, thin 
fellow with a haughty, stupid face, a man who couldn’t 
be under thirty and who was dressed in well-fitting and 
expensive clothes. She couldn’t help staring at him, all 
the more because he took no notice of her at all. “He 
was so out of place there,” she wrote. “He was so well- 
bred, with the nicest thin brown hands. And, my dear 
Minnie, he was even stupider than me. Much stupider.” 

She watched him a great deal, as he tried to write on 
his machine. The keyboard was hidden with a tin cover, 
so that he was obliged to learn the letters by memory; 
this puzzled and annoyed him, and he frowned severely 
over his chart. 

“I say!” he said, suddenly, to Frances, with a marked 
English accent, “Isn’t there something wrong about this 
thing? B ought to come next to A.” 

She explained that the keyboard wasn’t arranged 
alphabetically. He asked why not, and she said she 
didn’t know. 

“Some American idea, I suppose,” he observed, with 
displeasure, and turned away to resume his struggle. 

He was not polite, he was certainly not clever, and, in 
spite of limpid and innocent grey eyes, not handsome; 
his nose was too large, his expression too contemptuous. 
Why then should Frances think him so terribly appealing 
and attractive? She felt an exaggerated good-will to- 


ii6 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


ward him, an ardent wish to help him, even to comfort 
him. There was no obvious reason for this painful com- 
passion; he was well-dressed, showed not the least trace 
of poverty, quite the contrary. He looked healthy too, 
although very thin. And he had very much the air of 
being satisfied with himself. Ridiculous girl! 

He had come to the end of a line and not understand- 
ing the bell’s signal, was trying to keep on writing. He 
saw that something was wrong, and he turned to Frances 
again. She had been watching l^im, and was ready to 
explain at once. 

‘T’ve never tried one of these infernal things before,” 
he remarked, quite unnecessarily. 

*T’ve been at it for two months,” said Frances, with 
a sigh, “but I don’t seem to get on. Not like the others.” 

He looked at her thoroughly for the first time. 

“You’re not like the others,” he said, “that’s probably 
why.” 

And added : 

“You look like an English girl.” 

That meant that he was pleased, she knew. 

“I’m not. I’m American — as far back as the Revolu- 
tion.” 

“What revolution?” he asked. 

With the characteristic innocence of her country-peo- 
ple, whose Genesis it is, she was astounded. 

“Why, our Revolution! In 1776!” she explained. 

He said “Really!” and went on with his writing. 

The next night he saluted her with a stiff “Good 
evening!” directly she entered the room, so formal and 
frigid that her heart sank. They weren’t friendly, then! 
But, after half an hour’s desperate effort, he grew bored 
and discouraged, and once more turned his attention to 
the pretty girl. 

“You’re doing well,” he observed. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


117 

Frances gave a sigh and smiled at him. 

“I hate it!’' she said. 

‘‘Rather! But why do you do it ?” 

“I want to get on — get a better job.” 

“What are you doing now?” 

He was, she thought, very personal, but he didn’t 
seem aware of it. 

“I’m a secretary, for an authoress.” 

That seemed to interest him. 

“I’d thought of something of that sort for myself,” 
he said. “What do they expect of a secretary over 
here ?” 

“My position’s rather peculiar,” Frances told him. 
“I do all sorts of things that aren’t really part of my 
duties.” 

“What, for instance? Can’t you give me some sort 
of idea?” he persisted, and, half-laughing, she tried to 
tell him. 

“Oh, I go shopping with her,” she said, “and I listen 
while she reads, and I get up little chafing-dish suppers, 
and answer the telephone, and check up her bank book, 
and talk to her publishers, and — oh, well — lots of things 
like that !” 

“I shouldn’t call that a secretary,” said the young man. 
“At home we’d call you a sort of companion.” 

Frances turned red, and began typing again. He was 
rude, and no mistake about it. Detestable ! She worked 
violently for a time, then, out of the corner of her eye, 
she caught a glimpse of him, pecking away at his type- 
writer so slowly and stupidly that her heart smote her. 

“Good night!” she said cheerfully when the gong 
sounded, and she went ofif to the dictation class and he to 
the beginner’s room, where she could see him through the 
open door, writing on the arm of his chair, surrounded 
by eager children. 


ii8 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


III 

Frances was a little late the next night, and from her 
locker in the corridor, she looked anxiously into the class- 
room for the young Englishman’s nice brown head bent 
over his machine. But he wasn’t there. She went to 
her place and began to work half-heartedly, with one eye 
on the door, watching for him. The clock ticked on and 
on, half an hour gone, still she couldn’t believe he wasn’t 
coming. The whole long hour passed, the typing lesson 
was finished, and he hadn’t come. 

Disappointment out of all proportion assailed her. Her 
heart was like lead, the whole world blank. 

“What a fool I am !” she told herself. “Why on earth 
should I care ? I don’t really ; it’s only that he’s the only 

other possible person in the place Why should he 

come? Of course he’s given up the whole thing in dis- 
gust. Of course he’s not coming back, at all. Ever. Of 
course I shan’t see him again. What difference docs it 
make ?” 

And yet, in spite of all this excellent common-sense, 
that feeling of desolation persisted. She hated and 
loathed the silly school, made up her mind to stop com- 
ing. She sat in the shorthand class, scratching down her 
unintelligible little symbols 

Suddenly an awful thought swept over her. It grew 
rapidly to a conviction. He had certainly stayed away 
solely because of her, because she had been so preposter- 
ously over- friendly that he was disgusted and alarmed. 
She did wish that she might see him once more, just to 
tell him that she didn’t like him, not him, personally; 
simply, like all nice Americans, she had wanted to be 
kind to a stranger. . . . 

She rushed out the minute the class was over. She 
was very anxious to get home. And there he was, wait- 
ing for her, standing under a street lamp where the light 
streamed on his arrogant face, a slim, foppish figure. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


119 

with a walking stick. She felt suddenly angry at him; 
replied with coldness to his greeting. 

“It was such a nice evening,” he said, “I couldn’t stand 
that filthy place.” 

It was; sweet, calm, fresh, with a bright little moon 
overhead. 

“I thought perhaps you’d like to walk a bit,” he said, 
“if you’re not tired.” 

She hesitated imperceptibly, then accepted. 

“A few blocks,” she said. “I shouldn’t like to be late.” 

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked presently. 

Frances said she didn’t, and they began strolling, quite 
aimlessly, uptown. 

“I say !” he exclaimed, “It’s very decent of you to come. 
You Americans are unconventional, aren’t you?” 

“Not all of us,” said Frances drily. 

“We’re different. We won’t have anything to do with 
a stranger till we’ve got his credentials. I dare say we’re 
over-particular. No English girl I’ve ever met would 
take up a man this way ” 

“I’m not in the habit of it,” said Frances. She was 
affronted and angry. “But I’m not a child. I’m ac- 
customed to — to forming my own judgments. I — as far 
as I could judge, you were a gentleman. I thought you’d 
quite understand ” 

“I doT he protested, “I do, absolutely. I only wanted 
to tell you that I like it — all this freedom, you know. 
An English girl of your class would be so — so much more 
prudent ” 

“I’m not imprudent!” cried Frances, passionately. 

“Ah, but you are, though. My dear young lady, you 
don’t even know my name.” 

“Well, what is it, then?” she asked, half-laughing, half- 
furious. “You’d better tell me, if that will make this 
shocking walk more 'prudent.’ ” 

“Lionel Naylor,” he said. 


120 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


‘‘Haven’t you any letters, any papers, to identify your- 
self? How can I tell if that’s really your name?” 

He replied with perfect seriousness: 

“I’ve one or two things — a letter ” 

“Oh, nonsense! Couldn’t you see that I was joking? 
Why on earth should I care who you are? I’m old 
enough and sufficiently intelligent to find out very soon 
what you are. I’m not afraid of strange men. I can 
take care of myself.” 

“It does no harm for a girl to be careful,” he answered, 
stubbornly. 

And that was, apparently, his final word. They went 
on in silence. Frances counted fifteen blocks without a 
word. At the first crossing he had rather ceremoniously 
taken her arm, and he didn’t release it. He seemed quite 
contented to go on forever in this way. But it provoked 
Frances beyond measure. She longed to say to him: 

“Why did you ask me to take a walk, if you didn’t 
want to speak to me?” 

She made up her mind that she wouldn’t speak first, 
no matter how long it was. She had to, though. She 
looked at her watch. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to turn back now,” she said. “It’s 
time I was home.” 

“I say I” he cried. “That’s too bad ! I wanted to have 
a talk with you.” 

“Why didn’t you talk then?” she asked, sharply, and 
he answered with equal irritability: 

“My dear young lady, I can’t plunge into things the 
way you people do. I have to collect my thoughts a 
bit ” 

“Strange as it may seem to you,” said Frances, “all 
the people in this country are not exactly alike.” 

It began to dawn upon him that she was really an- 
noyed, that these people were possibly as sensitive to of- 
fence as himself. Instantly he was very sorry. 


I2I 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 

“I dare say Fm not very tactful/’ he said, “I didn’t 
mean to be offensive, though, I assure you. I admire 
you people very much.” 

^^All of us?” 

He laughed. 

‘There are some, of course. . . . My sister-in-law — 
She! ...” 

“She’s an American?” 

“Yes. My brother lives over here, you know. Been 
here some time. We thought he was a confirmed 
bachelor. Practically certain not to marry. Then, the 
very day after I got here, he did it. And such a girl! 
Of course it made trouble at once.” 

Frances was interested, and moreover, she could see 
that he wanted to talk about it. 

“How?” she asked. 

“Set my brother against me. Put all sorts of beastly 
■ — Am — beastly ideas into his head. She has no use for a 
man unless he’s eternally stewing over a row of figures, 
grubbing after money. So now he’s got this idiotic idea 
of my learning this typing and shorthand rot. And why? 
So I can get a job in his office. I never heard such silly 
rot. What earthly use is that stuff going to be ? I shan’t 
be one of his clerks. It’s her idea. She wants to humili- 
ate me.” 

Frances murmured something sympathetic. 

“What business were you in before ?” she asked. 

“Not in any business,” he replied, surprised. “Didn’t 
you understand ? I suppose, according to your ideas. I’m 
no good. I’ve never done anything much. Just stopped 
at home while my mother was alive. . . . Until two years 
ago . . . when she died. She — liked to have me at 
home. We got on together very well.” 

He was rather pathetically anxious to be friendly and 
communicative now, to show her that he wasn’t aloof and 
condescending. He tried to tell her about himself, in- 


122 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


directly to present his credentials. And did so, far more 
fully than he imagined. With every word, spoken and 
unspoken, she was more certain that she had not been 
mistaken — that he was ‘‘nice,” that he was to be trusted, 
that he was mysteriously likable. 

“We travelled, and so on,” he continued. “She liked 
that. . . . Do you know, when I look at this girl Horace 
has married, Tm glad — really glad, the poor old mater — 
isn’t here.” 

Then, unfortunately, he got started on a very favourite 
topic ; he told her what he had endured from “that girl” ; 
how she sneered at him, persecuted him, was continually 
poisoning his brother’s mind against him. Frances lis- 
tened with a heavy heart. She couldn’t approve of this! 
It wasn’t manly; it wasn’t fine. She pitied him, yearned 
over him, and at the same time felt a passionate Defoe 
desire to lecture him, to tell him he was wrong, didn’t 
see things in a proper light. She wanted to tell him 
what to do and offer to help him to do it. 

Conversation about his sister-in-law lasted until they 
had reached Frankie’s door. Then he was once more 
surprised and regretful that he hadn’t made better use 
of his time. He took Frankie’s proffered hand warmly. 

“You see,” he said, “I didn’t ask your name. It wasn’t 
necessary.” 

“Do you know it ?” she asked, a little puzzled. 

“No, not that. Simply, I don’t need any credentials 
to know that you’re — absolutely — all right. Absolutely.” 

She smiled at him maternally. She liked that clumsy 
compliment; she liked his naiveness, his simplicity, even 
his rudeness. She saw him no longer as a young man, 
but as a boy, who had been badly trained, a rather spoilt 
boy. She felt very peaceful, very kindly, toward him 
and toward everyone else. She had never known life to 
be so satisfying as it was that evening, for no reason at 
all. 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


I 

He was there, the next evening, and welcomed her as 
an old friend ; in fact, he talked so much that she grew 
uneasy. 

“We’d better work a little,” she said. “Wouldn’t it 
be awful if a teacher should come and scold us — at our 
age!” 

“What I particularly want to ask,” he said, “is, if 
you’d come down to Brighton Beach to-morrow? I’ll 
run you down in Horace’s motor. We’ll have lunch and 
a swim and get back early. Will that be all right?” 

“I’d love it,” she answered, “but I don’t know whether 
Miss E. could spare me. I’ll ask her.” 

“Perhaps if I came home with you this evening, it 
would look better. So that she can see what sort of 
chap I am. I could stop in for a moment, couldn’t I ?” 

“Yes,” Frances answered, doubtfully, “but — I suppose 
so . . . but I’ll have to explain a little in advance. 
There’s a young German who comes every evening to see 
her, and you’re sure to find him there.” 

“Every evening, eh ?” 

“Yes; he’s her cousin.” 

He frowned over this; asked a number of questions. 

“Are you sure she’s all right?” he demanded. “You 
can’t be too careful, you know.” 

“Oh, yes!” Frances asserted, positively, although she 
was far from sure that he would think so. 

“I’ll certainly stop in this evening,” he said.“ “I want 
to see for myself.” 


123 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


124 

“I don’t think you’d better,” she said, reluctantly, “Miss 
E.’s awfully queer, eccentric, you know. She mightn’t 
like it.” 

“But I want to see her,” he insisted. “She surely can’t 
object to my stopping in for half a minute. You’re not 
a servant.” 

“It’s not that ” 

“I want to see for myself,” he repeated. “It may not 
be a suitable place for you at all. I’d know at once.” 

His attitude, his air of protection, delighted Frankie 
while it annoyed her. She was so firmly convinced that 
she could take care of herself, so jealous of her freedom, 
that she didn’t want even advice. And still couldn’t help 
being very much pleased by this wholly masculine 
gesture. 

In the end she agreed. And was at once sorry and 
wretched, going through her classes in a nightmare of 
worry. How would Miss Eppendorfer take it? What 
would she think of Frankie’s walking in, uninvited, un- 
permitted, with a strange man? And how to explain 
him? Now she was ready to confess herself imprudent. 
She would have given anything she owned if something 
would have prevented Mr. Naylor from coming. 

He, of course, was perfectly unruffled, as anyone con- 
scious of such superiority would be. He followed Fran- 
ces into the little Mission sitting-room where Miss 
Eppendorfer and Mr. Hassler were smoking side by side 
on the sofa. Frances was bitterly embarrassed; for a 
minute she couldn’t speak at all. She saw them both 
staring at her in amazement. 

“I’ve brought my friend, Mr. Naylor, in for a few 
minutes,” she said, in a strained, artificial sort of voice. 
“We ” 

Nothing more came; the girl who could always take 
care of herself couldn’t account for her visitor. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


125 

‘‘We met at the business school,” said Naylor, “and 
as we were more or less the only human beings there, we 
naturally had to be friends.” 

At the sound of his careless voice. Miss Eppendorfer’s 
look of amazement died away. She got up and shook 
hands with him, presented him to Kurt, and asked him 
to sit down. She was like a good servant; she knew 
class when she saw it. 

Never before had Frances realised how distinguished 
her Mr. Naylor was until she saw him in Miss Eppen- 
dorfer’s sitting-room. She saw the authoress inspecting 
him in her detailed and unabashed way, staring at him, 
computing the cost of his clothes, comprehending the 
high degree he possessed of what she called “style,” and 
so greatly admired. She was deeply impressed. 

He was very gallant to the poor thing, which delighted 
her beyond measure. No denying that she made a fool 
of herself. She was coy, imperious, more youthful than 
she had ever dared to be with Kurt, and, no matter how 
preposterous her behaviour, Mr. Naylor didn’t once at- 
tempt to catch Frankie’s eye, never encouraged her to be 
more preposterous. 

Poor Miss Eppendorfer! Frankie, watching her, re- 
flected on her ingratiating servility toward Mr. Hassler 
and her present conduct with Mr. Naylor, and found it 
impossible to reconcile all this with the Miss Eppendorfer 
she knew. Could it be the same woman who often talked 
to her with sense, with cynical shrewdness, with sharp 
knowledge of the world? The same woman who wrote 
books and sold them, knew how to make money and how 
to invest it? At the sound of a man’s voice she was 
horribly bewitched, even her face lost its look of worn 
good nature and took on a false and stupid simper. It 
hurt Frances, she was genuinely grateful to Mr. Naylor 
for not sneering. 


126 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


But the baleful eye of the young German was fixed 
upon him. He was forced to sit in silence and listen 
to their badinage, and it infuriated him. He broke in 
suddenly, in a harsh, high voice : 

*‘You are in business here?’’ ^ 

Mr. Naylor turned toward him, looked at him, and 
hated him. 

‘"No,” he said. 

‘Terhaps you are looking for an opening?” 

“No; there’s an 'opening’ for me when I’m ready for 
it,” he answered haughtily. 

“It should not be at all difficult to find an opening in 
this country. The requirements are so small,” Mr. 
Hassler announced, with tact. “Here they will willingly 
employ a man who knows nothing. Even hard work 
they don’t expect. With us in Germany all is very dif- 
ferent. It is necessary to work very hard. We are all 
trained to work very hard. A young fellow starting in 
business with us would never ask, ‘What are the hours?’ 
Certainly not. We realise that you have got to work 
very hard, in order to get somewhere.” 

“We don’t need to work so hard in England,” said 
Mr. Naylor. “We are somewhere.” 

“Yes, where!” cried the other, raising his voice. 

“Where you’d like to be,” Mr. Naylor replied with a 
smile. 

“Bah I You’re getting left behind. We’re beating you 
everywhere, in every line. Your British trade^ — where 
will it be in ten years’ time?” 

“Can’t say, I’m sure. I’m not in trade. But I’m not 
worried. I dare say we’ll still be on the map.” 

Mr. Hassler’s excitement carried him away. 

“Yes, you’ll be on the map!” he shouted, “as a Ger- 
man Provinz. We’ll stamp out a little of that damn 
arrogance.” 

“I say, are you trying to be funny?” 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 127 

‘‘That damned British arrogance,” he went on, at the 
top of his voice. “You half-educated, half-trained, half- 
alive nation of money-greedy pigs 

“I say!” cried Mr. Naylor again, puzzled and angry, 
“You’re going a bit too far!” 

“PIGS !” shouted the young German. 

Naylor sprang to his feet, as white with anger as the 
other was red; he was on the point of speaking when 
Frances caught his arm. 

“Oh, please!” she entreated, and suddenly and help- 
lessly, began to laugh. 

“Oh, why do Germans always call people pigs!” she 
cried. 

They all looked at her, and under their surprised 
glance, she struggled for self-control and gained it. She 
looked down at the ground, her mouth still quivering, 
and kept very still. 

“As for you began Mr. Hassler, and then 

stopped. 

“Now! Now!” begged Miss Eppencjorfer, in terrible 
distress, “Now, gentlemen! . . . What about some nice 
cold beer ?” 

She was afraid, though, to fetch it and leave the men 
alone; she was afraid also to ask Frances, not knowing 
whether or not she considered herself insulted in the 
person of her guest. She stood nervously smiling, her 
eyes on her cousin, mutely beseeching him to be placated 
by beer. At last Frances took pity on her, and went her- 
self to get the stuff. But Mr. Naylor declined. 

“Thanks,” he said, stiff and outraged, “I’ll be going.” 

“Pshaw!” muttered Mr. Hassler, who stood at the 
window with his back turned ostentatiously. 

“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Naylor, crisply. 

“Pshaw!” the other repeated, somewhat louder. 

With a very obvious effort the young Englishman said 
nothing to this ; he took his hat, and with a hasty hand- 


128 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

clasp for Frankie and a bow for Miss Eppendorfer, took 
himself off. 

Frankie went into her own room and tried to compose 
herself by reading, but not for long. Almost immediately 
the front door slammed and Miss Eppendorfer came into 
her room like a whirlwind. 

“There! You seel’* she screamed. “You miserable 
creature I He’s gone ! He’s gone !’* 

Frances looked at her severely. 

“You’ve spoiled everything!” she went on. “How did 
you dare to laugh at him ? What right have you to laugh 
at him! You’re nothing better than a servant. And 
he belongs to one of the finest families in Hamburg. His 
father’s worth nearly half a million. He’s been through 
Heidelberg. And you dare to laugh at him! Who are 
you, anyway? A big, gawky fool of a girl. . . . Pick- 
ing up a man in the street and bringing him into my 
house. . . . He’s. shocked at you.” 

And so on, in the strain that so sickened and dismayed 
Frances. 

“He laughs at you. He says you’re a clumsy, igno- 
rant ” . . . All manner of dirty insolence. 

The heart of the trouble was there, that Frances had 
laughed at him. He could forget his anger against the 
Englishman, but he could not stomach being laughed at 
by a pretty girl. He had said horrible things about her, 
which Miss Eppendorfer had treasured up and now re- 
peated, with greater malice because she dimly perceived 
that in his hatred for Frances there was more than a little 
lust. 

Against this attack Frances was defenceless. There 
was nothing in her nature, nothing in her training, to 
arm her. She stood up very straight, very proud, but 
tears were running down her cheeks. She waited until 
every one of the dreadful words had been said, and the 
speaker had flung out of the room, then she set to work 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


129 

to pack her little trunk with furious energy, cramming 
everything in, wishing only to be gone forever from that 
place. In hat and jacket, she went out into the hall and 
telephoned for a taxi. 

The driver came up after her trunk; he was just 
dragging it along the hall to put it into the lift, when Miss 
Eppendorfer came rushing out, in a kimono, her face 
raddled and tear-blistered, her wisps of hair in a wild 
tangle. 

'‘No! No!” she screamed. "Stop! Frances!” 

Her voice reverberated shockingly in the stone cor- 
ridor. The lift boy and the chauffeur stared at her. 
Frances felt ready to faint. 

"Frances! Come back and let me explain!” 

"I can’t!” said Frances in a low voice. "Please don’t 
make such a noise !” 

"Come back! I can’t let you go like this! I didn’t 
mean what I said ! You know I didn’t !” 

Already the doors of two apartments had stealthily 
opened. 

"Oh, please hush!” entreated Frances. "I can’t come 
back. I’ll write.” 

Suddenly Miss Eppendorfer turned to the two men. 

"Can’t you beg this hard-hearted girl not to leave me 
like this, without a chance to explain?” she sobbed, in a 
torrent of tears. "Can’t you say a word for me? I’m 
alone in the world. I haven’t ” 

"Hush!” commanded Frances. "I’ll come! Please 
take the trunk in again.” 

When the front door was closed Miss Eppendorfer 
flung her arms about Frances. 

"I know you can’t forgive me,” she moaned. "But, oh 
Frances! . . . You don’t know what love is! You don’t 
know how I love that man! I know I’m a fool, but I 
can’t help it. Oh, Frances, just stand by me till it’s 
over.” 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


130 

“I don’t understand you. I thought you were going 
to marry him ” 

‘'No! No! Never! . . . Only stand by me till I get 
over it. It won’t last. He’ll go away soon. It’s mad- 
ness; I know it. But you don’t know how I suffer. I 
can’t help myself. Oh, Frances, you’re so cool and rea- 
sonable, you don’t know!'' 

The flood of her confession was not to be dammed. 
Frances had to hear it all and to learn its lesson, as well 
as her unready mind permitted. And all the time she 
listened, in shame, pity and disgust, her adventuring 
spirit was eagerly and thirstily drinking this new knowl- 
edge, this experience, precious even if vicarious. 

She really understood very little of it. Miss Eppen- 
dorfer, although protesting constantly how she “loved” 
Kurt, seemed actually to display more hate than affection. 
She bore him a bitter grudge for this “love.” She was 
full of stories of his sneers, his taunts ; how he had pulled 
the pins out of her hair and then laughed himself sick 
at the bleached and scanty locks. How he compared her 
to other women whom he had seen in the course of the 
day ; how he had asked her to sing, and then mocked her. 
How he wasted her money and forever demanded more. 
She knew that he ridiculed her to his friends. He en- 
couraged her to drink and then got her to sign 
cheques. . . . 

The end of her recital left her stripped of all decency, 
all honour, showed her a weak fool destroyed by a vice, 
something to shudder at: yet her honesty, her lack of 
self- justification, the eternal and naked humanness in it 
all, touched even the fastidious young girl. 

“This awful thing is l!" the woman seemed to say. 
“This is my soul. May God help me, and Man pity me!” 

Frances sat beside her till she fell asleep, wiser, kinder, 
better than she had ever been before. 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


I 

Mr. Naylor telephoned the next morning. 

“Pm waiting downstairs in the hall,” he said. ‘T don't 
care to come up.” 

Frances hurried into her hat and jacket and went down. 
She got into the motor-car beside him, indescribably re- 
lieved to get away from the flat for a while. She looked 
at him with a smile. 

‘‘Well!” she said. 

“Well !” he repeated. “Upon my word, that was a jolly 
little party last night ! That German chap 1” 

“You don’t know how sorry I felt, bringing that on 
you. But, of course, I never imagined ” 

“You know, though, it’s no place for you. Miss Defoe. 
That woman’s not ” 

“Please! You really can’t understand her as I do. 
She — really, she’s. ...” 

She stopped, at a loss, but quite determined to protect 
the poor wretch who had begged for pity the night be- 
fore. 

“She has so many good points,” she went on, “Oh, I’m 
not quite an idiot, Mr. Naylor. ... I see her as she is. 
Only — I’d rather dwell on her good qualities. She’s been 
very kind to me.” 

Not for worlds would she have told anyone of the 
two dreadful scenes. She enlarged on Miss Eppendor- 
fer’s friendliness and good humour and the excellence of 
her work. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


132 

‘That’s all very well,” said he, “but I stick to it that 
it’s no place for you/^ 

They didn’t talk much more on the way down; Mr. 
Naylor was too much occupied with his driving, which 
was minutely careful. He took no risks, and he muttered 
furiously against those who did. He seemed to Frankie 
unnecessarily prudent ; she would have liked to go faster, 
as lots of other cars did. However, a look at his frown- 
ing face reproved her; she felt that this driving business 
must be more difficult, more perilous than her inexperi- 
ence imagined. 

As soon as they reached the beach he proposed taking 
their swim at once, and she very readily agreed. Poor 
girl! She hadn’t been in the sea for years, since those 
long gone days, those happy days when she had been a 
school-girl. She was, it must be admitted, rather eager 
to “show off” to her Englishman, for she was a good 
swimmer, and not at all an unpleasant object in a bathing 
suit. She came out of her bath-house and walked down 
on to the beach, conscious of her splendid symmetry, her 
strong, straight limbs, her face gay and boyish under a 
tight rubber cap. It was obvious to both of them at 
once that Mr. Naylor was physically not at all her equal. 
Gone his chic, his superiority; he was thin, fragile, rather 
wretched. Within her stirred faintly an old, old instinct, 
perverted and crushed out through generations of false 
training, the instinct of the woman to seek for strength 
and beauty in her mate. Her smile was artificial. 

“Beastly cold I” he grumbled. 

But Frances dashed by him, through the breakers, and 
began swimming out in strong and beautiful strokes, her 
bare arms flashing up rhythmically, her white teeth show- 
ing in a broad smile. She looked back, and saw Mr. 
Naylor moving slowly near the shore ; after ten minutes 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


133 

or so he came out on to the sand, and lay in the sun 
watching her. And presently began to wave. 

She came inshore reluctantly. 

“What is it?’’ she asked. “It’s glorious in the water 
to-day. I never want to come out!” 

“It’s time to come out now,” he said. 

“Oh, it can’t be! I’ll have to stop longer!” 

“But, I say, I want my lunch. This isn’t much of a 
lark for me, you know, roasting out here like this.” 

“Why don’t you go back into the water again ?” 

“I can’t. It gives me a chill.” 

“A chill !” said Frances, and couldn’t keep a faint con- 
tempt out of her voice. “You’d better go and dress. I’ll 
be out presently.” 

“I shouldn’t think of leaving you; you’re so rash. Go 
ahead, enjoy yourself ; I’ll wait.” 

His good nature conquered Frances ; she gave one more 
look at the glittering sea and went back into her bath- 
house. 

She had to wait quite twenty minutes for him. 

“You’re quick, aren’t you?” he said, artlessly. 

“Or is it that you’re slow?” she returned. Now he was 
his own self again, the imperturbable, the superior. She 
wished to forget the shivering, frail being who had for 
a time supplanted him. 

He ordered an amazing lunch, in the old “Oriental,” 
which was still standing then, with its unique flavour; 
he saw people whom he knew by sight and could point 
out to Frankie. He ordered champagne, which she had 
never before tasted. He was like a prince, or rather, 
like a millionaire. . . . 

After this meal, which was nothing less than a banquet, 
Frances said she would have to go home. 

, “The awful cook’s gone out,” she explained, “and I’ll 
have to help poor Miss E. to get something ready.” 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


134 

‘"What!” he cried. ‘‘Do you mean to tell me you're 
going to cook!” 

“And eat," she answered, cheerfully. “Please don’t 
be mediaeval." 

“I don’t like it. A girl of your class — and your 
ability " 

They were spinning along the road by the marshes, 
passed by an incessant stream of motors going down. 

“It’s a confounded shame to go home now anyway," 
he said. “If we could only have had the evening!" 

“Another time," she said, before she thought, and was 
rather confused at her own forwardness. 

“I hope SO," he answered gravely, “I can’t tell you 
how much I — like to be vdth you. I — altogether — I’ve 
never met anyone like you. . . . I’m very anxious for 
old Horace to see you. . . . Do you suppose you could 
meet him some time? Without his wife, I mean? It’s 
irregular, I know, but you’re not conventional." 

She said no, that she wasn’t. 

“Could you set a time? Next Wednesday?" 

And she said she thought that would do. 

II 

“You don’t mind if I go out to tea on Wednesday, do 
you?" Frances asked Miss Eppendorfer the next morn- 
ing. 

“Not a bit!" said she, cheerfully. “I like to see you 
enjoy yourself like a human being. Is it your English 
friend?" 

“Yes. The only trouble is, I haven’t a thing fit to 
wear, and it’s at a hotel,” she said. “Couldn’t you come 
down town with me and help me pick out something?" 

Miss Eppendorfer was only too pleased; it was one 
of her good days and she was cheerful and energetic. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


135 

She led Frances from shop to shop, imperiously reject* 
ing every suggestion. 

“I know what suits you,” she insisted, “I’m a wonder- 
ful judge of value, too. You leave it all to me.” 

At last she was pleased by a grey broadcloth suit. 

“Oh, yes!” cried Frankie, ironically. “A hundred and 
fifty dollars is just what I always pay!” 

“I’m going to get it for you.” 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t!” she protested, shocked. 

“You must. To make up for all I said that night,’* 
whispered the authoress. “Be generous, Frances! Don’t 
be petty!” 

She allowed herself to be persuaded, accepted the suit 
and with it a new hat and blouse. She felt guilty and 
ashamed and yet delighted. She was so very anxious 
to make a favourable impression on this brother Horace. 

She started off, very nervous and still more ashamed. 
The whole exploit seemed wrong, meeting the man with- 
out his wife, and wearing clothes she could never have 
bought for herself. ... It v;as common. 

“Cheap,” she reflected. 

But Horace would have made a supper-club respect- 
able. They were waiting in the corridor; she saw her 
Mr. Naylor at once though he didn’t see her ; slender and 
drooping, quietly conscious of his impeccable British 
elegance, he was watching the wrong door. Near him 
was a heavy, bull-necked, red-faced man with a black 
moustache and melancholy, bilious eyes, who smoked a 
big cigar and stared nowhere. This was Horace. 

He surprised Frances by his lack of everything that 
pleased her in his brother. He was altogether the mer- 
chant, not a hint of the man-of-the-world. He shook 
hands with her and smiled, but it was a sad, dull smile.. 
He was distrait, and couldn’t conceal it. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


136 

“Well,” he said, with a sigh, “Lead the way, Lionel, 
my boy!” 

They entered an engaging little tea-room with shaded 
lamps and sofas. Lionel took charge of everything, 
chose a table, and ordered the cocktails, but the man- 
agement of the conversation was evidently beyond him. 
There was a long and awkward silence, while the drinks 
were coming. No one looked at either of the others. 

It was Horace who first revived, after two cocktails. 

‘‘Well,” he observed again, “He’s a handful. You’ll 
have to keep an eye on him, I can tell you.” 

Frances was startled; was he talking to her? . . . 
She looked up and caught his gaze, melancholy and 
kindly, fixed on her. 

“You’ll have all you can manage, with him'* he con- 
tinued. 

She was alarmed and confused. It wasn’t possible 
that he thought . . . And yet, very evidently, he did 
think so, for he went on, with a sort of gloomy arch- 
ness : 

“I hope he won’t be too much for you.” 

She was anxious to refute the suggestion of any re- 
sponsibility for Lionel, to tell this brother, subtly and 
politely, but unmistakably, that he misread the situation. 
But she could not, on the spur of the moment, think of 
anything that would do. 

“I don’t really know Mr. Naylor very well,” she at- 
tempted. 

Horace smiled. 

“Plenty of time!” he said. 

And this time his glance wandered to his brother, and 
was curiously altered, rested upon that futile young face 
with limitless fidelity and affection 

“Yes,” he said again, fatuously, “You’ll have your 
hands full.” 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


137 

Frances had a horrible feeling of being caught in a 
net. 

“I’m afraid I can’t undertake such a responsibility,” 
she said, with a sickly smile. 

Horace smiled indulgently at her. After a third cock- 
tail, he was becoming a little garrulous on the subject of 
his brother; partly because he thought it would interest 
Frankie and partly because it was his great topic any- 
way. His pride in his brother was rather surprising to 
Frankie; she couldn’t know, of course, from what a 
stodgy, obscure family this charming irresponsibility had 
sprung, couldn’t imagine how audacious his extrava- 
gances appeared, how remarkable his social progress; in 
fine, she couldn’t see him as a Naylor. 

It was not until much later that she divined something 
of the relations between these two. Sons of a well-to-do 
manufacturer, they had both “received advantages” in 
the way of education and so forth, but while Horace re- 
mained immutably the son of a wealthy manufacturer 
who had had “advantages,” Lionel in some mysterious 
way, not unusual in this world, had turned out to be 
aristocratic, elegant, fashionable. His brother took a 
naive pride in this; he admired Lionel as he did royalty, 
not very useful, but immensely valuable in his place. He 
never urged him to go into business; he was quite satis- 
fied that he should go his own dazzling way. For Horace 
was not the classic business man of stage and story, who 
despises and berates the idler; he was something much 
newer, the money-maker who is apologetic and secretly 
bewildered ; who feels called upon to justify his activity. 
Lionel was what he would have liked to be, only that 
he knew it to be impossible. He acknowledged that 
they were of different clay. 

He told Frankie how Lionel had no idea of time, and 
was always late. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


138 

How he kept the ‘most exclusive people waiting for 
him and never had a proper excuse. 

How he spent preposterous sums on handkerchiefs, his 
hobby. 

How altogether idle and rude and popular he had been 
‘'at home.’' 

In spite of her common-sense, Frankie began to feel 
that the attentions of such a man were something to 
boast of, to treasure. He wasn’t rude to her, ever. 

After a fourth cocktail and a minute sardine sand- 
wich, Horace said , he was obliged to go. 

“Au revoir!” he said to Frankie, with a very bad 
accent. “If this boy gives you any trouble, you let me 
know, eh?” 

He clasped her hand in his warm, moist one with 
genuine good-will, slapped Lionel on the shoulder, and 
went out, edging his way clumsily among the little low 
tables. 

Lionel gave a sigh of comfort, and leaned across the 
table. 

“May I have another cup ?” he asked. 

Frances was looking at him sternly. 

“Mr. Naylor!” she said, “You have given your brother 
a false impression.” 

He was startled. 

“I . . . so it seems,” he said, weakly, “I . . . he does 
seem ...” 

“It isn’t fair,” she went on, “I’m surprised at you! 
What could / do? Or say? Mr. Naylor, really, it was 
not right of you !” 

“I know it. . . . But I give you my word I never 
exactly said — anything. I dare say I was — oh, en- 
thusiastic. ... I suppose he drew his own conclusions.” 

He went on, after a pause : 

“I did talk a lot about you. ... You see ” 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


139 


He tapped his cigarette nervously on his plate. 

‘'I say!’' he said. “Couldn’t it be true, you know?” 

She understood him well enough, and a bright colour 
surged into her face. 

“What?” she asked, disingenuously. 

“I mean — what Horace thinks. ... I mean — do you 
think you could 

She faltered. 

“I don’t know. . . . It’s been such a short time ” 

“You know that doesn’t matter. Time! Why, the 
first minute I saw you, there in that beastly school, I 
knew I was done for. You looked so lovely and so 
dignified. Such a lady. Just the sort of girl I’d always 
thought about. My lovely girl! My dear, beautiful 
girl!” 

For some reason her eyes filled with tears. His voice 
touched her so, moved her so profoundly. She couldn’t 
pretend, couldn’t hesitate. Because she knew, too, per- 
fectly well. She looked up at him with a trembling smile. 

“It’s silly!” she said. “We don’t know each other.” 

“I know you, darling, as well as if I’d seen you every 
day for a year.” 

“But, really, we must be sensible,” she said, seriously. 
“We’ll have to wait — not commit ourselves to anything 
definite. We’ll be friends ” 

“Not I ! I want to commit myself as much as possible. 
Won’t you commit yourself just a little bit, darling girl? 
Just go so far as to say you like me?” 

“You know I like you,” she said, smiling. 

He could laugh now, tease her ; he knew she was won. 

They left the tea-room and began to stroll down Fifth 
Avenue. And at every crossing he took her arm and 
their eyes met, and a ridiculous and passionate happiness 
filled them both. 

“My girl!” he whispered. 


140 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


Frances was almost ashamed of being so happy; she 
was anxious to appear practical and reasonable. She said 
she had shopping to do, and that Lionel might come 
with her, if he liked. He insisted upon augmenting her 
little purchases, choosing very expensive things, and 
things he had realised she wanted. In spite of her in- 
dependence, all this was delightful to her; she hesitated, 
refused, accepted. . . . 

A shop girl looked after them, was amused at their 
long, long glances and their unwarranted smiles: she 
thought them a well-matched couple, both so tall and so 
nice-looking and so well-bred. And she was very right ; 
they were well-matched, by God Himself, Who had filled 
Lionel’s need of a strong and sober and honest lover, 
who had given to Frankie the gay and careless companion 
her heart required, the clinging and exigent affection she 
could so well support. Lionel had the power to soften 
the touch of austerity latent in her, the hint of priggish- 
ness; she had the nobility and the resoluteness which 
he needed as an example, a stimulus to his plastic soul. 
They had, in each other’s company, a sense of absolute 
completeness and satisfaction; they knew that this love 
was altogether right. 

Frances inspected the new pocketbook he had bought 
her, so unnecessarily and unsuitably costly, and then 
again at Lionel’s happy face. And she would have liked 
to cry out what she and all women know enough to 
conceal : 

“Oh, my love, I want to protect you, to care for you, 
to shield your raw pride, forever and ever to stand be- 
tween you and the world !” 

And that mustn’t be said. She knew she must call 
his weakness strength, or she would destroy him. No 
man must ever see his true self mirrored in a woman’s 
eyes. He could not endure it. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


f 

( I 

r 

^ ‘‘But don't worry, my dearest girl!" said Lionel. 

|l “I can’t help it," said Frances. “It’s such a waste, 
j We could just as well take a train. Or anyway the taxi 
f needn’t wait. We could always find another." 

: They were on the veranda of a hotel at Long Beach, 

• on a Sunday afternoon, part of the crowd that Lionel 
liked so much. 

“We might not," he said. “There’s such a mob here. 
Better take no chances. As for the train — no, thanks! 
Now, do be a nice kid, and not scold me. Don’t you 
want me to have any pleasures at all?" 

“That’s not the question. Oh, Lionel, we could have 
just as nice a time without being so dreadfully wasteful. 
It’s . . . why, Lionel, it’s mad!” 

She had a genuine dislike for extravagance and frivol- 
S ity. Old traditions from remote Defoe ancestors urged 
her always toward prudence and restraint. She really 
couldn’t enter into Lionel’s mood, couldn’t for a moment 
j be careless, and would never pretend to be. She wanted 
dignity and purpose; she was fond enough of fun, but it 
wasn’t his kind. She could not enjoy watching other peo- 
ple spend money. Lionel didn’t care to swim, or to walk ; 
he was quite happy to sit on a crowded veranda, drinking 
cocktails and chaffing his serious girl. He was happy 
now, in watching the streams of people going in and out 
of the hotel, over-dressed, over-perfumed, over-fed, 
over-stimulated. But there was nothing here for 
Frankie. 

141 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


142 

All this life that Lionel had pulled her into distressed 
her. He had urged her to give up her business course, 
and instead they went out somewhere every evening. 
Miss Eppendorfer was always ready to let her go, as 
long as she wasn’t left alone. She absolutely approved 
of Lionel. From her point of view, he was the ideal 
lover, attractive and lavish. He was continually bring- 
ing presents to Frankie, flowers, chocolates and books. 
He refused to believe that she was not very fond of 
sweets, and was deaf to her hints that her taste in read- 
ing was not his. She felt like a prig, a bluestocking, 
with her perpetual advice and rebuke. Her serious soul 
was in revolt against this waste of time; often when they 
were at some blatant cabaret, she would be longing for 
her quiet room and a good book. She was really weary 
of this ceaseless pleasure-hunt, disgusted, and yet hadn’t 
the heart to deny his pleasures to Lionel. He never read 
a book, and was no more capable or desirous of quiet 
than a small boy. 

She took it for granted that he was more or less a 
rich man, and that as his wife she would be obliged to 
endure a good deal of this sort of existence. She did 
ask him, though, if he wouldn’t just as soon live out of 
town, and he said, whatever she liked. So she was able 
to picture herself in one of those charming suburban 
houses on the Sound, with a fine garden, and horses, and 
dogs. And undoubtedly children ; lovely, happy children. 

He had started to work in his brother’s office, which 
pleased Frankie, for she had the American woman’s dis- 
like for an unoccupied man. He said he was doing well, 
and talked of an early marriage. But that, too, was 
against 'Frankie’s principles. She wanted to wait, not 
because she wasn’t sure of herself or of him, but because 
a hasty marriage appeared somehow indecent to her. 
She even refused to tell her own people. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


143 

“Wait till I’ve known you a little longer,” she said. 

Taken all in all, this “being engaged” was not what 
Frankie had expected, was by no means the happiest time 
of her life, as she had always been told it would be. 
With Lionel, per se, she could find no fault. If he had 
been made to order for a Defoe he could not have been 
more satisfactory. He was almost like a brother in his 
manner, never too ardent, too pressing, or in any way 
offending her squeamishness. It was for this she really 
adored him, for his delicacy and genuine kindliness. She 
was too ignorant fully to appreciate it; she was simpl^y 
vaguely thankful that he was not like “some men” of 
whom she had read and heard. 

Moreover, she had a little of Horace’s absurd ad- 
miration for Lionel’s social graces. All the solid, sub- 
stantial, serious people in the world have it, this irra- 
tional and somewhat pathetic regard for the others, the 
spenders, the wasters, the ones who refuse to conform 
to their righteous code, the gay and audacious good-for- 
nothings. She knew that she wouldn’t have dared to do 
as he did, live after his style. Sometimes she had mis- 
givings, fancied her ideas for the future were sordid and 
petty, her hope for an orderly, self-respecting sort of 
existence, the house in the suburbs, with books and lec- 
tures and intellectual friends. . . . An existence that had 
no place for the poor fellow’s febrile excitements. 

Characteristically she got Lionel into the picture by 
assuring herself that he would change. 

II 

There came one day a careless little note, scrawled in 
huge letters on a bizarre card with a purple and gold 
monogram : 

**Woydt you come for dinner on Thursday? 

“Julie Naylor.” 


144 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

Lionel explained it to her when he arrived that eve- 
ning. 

“Horace made her/’ he said. “If she had her own 
way, I don’t think she’d ever ask a woman into the 
house. Of course she’s out of the question. Impossible. 
But for Horace’s sake, I wish you’d come. He’s a decent 
old boy. And he likes you. Thought you were the 
prettiest thing he’s seen You’ll go, won’t you?” 

Upon reflection, it seemed the correct thing to do, 
and she consented. 

Miss Eppendorfer helped her to get ready on the very 
important evening. She took the greatest interest in 
the whole affair, was very arch about it. Frances per- 
sisted in her “nothing really settled yet,” but Miss Ep- 
pendorfer refused to believe it. 

“Oh, I know all about such things!” she said. 

This evening was to mark the end of the feeble pre- 
tence, anyway. Lionel came for her a little early, and 
Miss Eppendorfer undertook to entertain him until 
Frankie was ready. She heard them talking gaily to- 
gether, in their usual vein of preposterous flirtation. 
She surmised the customary brandy and soda, and she 
felt her invariable shade of annoyance at their cama- 
raderie. If Lionel would only be — not condescending 
of course, but — oh, a little more 

An unusually loud shriek from the authoress startled 
her. 

“Oh, you extravagant boy! What a beauty! What a 
perfect beauty!” 

She hurried a bit then, and entered the room, looking 
her very best and loveliest, dignified, concealing her 
curiosity. They were on the sofa side by side, a little 
table before them holding the siphon and the brandy 
bottle, their heads together over something in the 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 145 

authoress’s hand. Directly she saw Frankie, she thrust 
the thing back at Lionel. 

‘^You must show it to her!” she cried, in great ex- 
citement. 

Lionel extended his hand, proffered her her ring 

It was the conventional single diamond, set in platinum, 
a stone so pure and beautiful and of such a size that 
Frances almost gasped. Her face showed no pleasure 
at first, nothing but blank dismay. She barely stopped 
herself in time from saying: 

“But oh, how terribly expensive!” 

He put it on her finger, and she smiled in duty bound. 
But secretly it terrified her. It was so much too splendid. 
Perhaps she had a premonition that it was an unlucky 
ring- 

Lionel was disappointed. He looked into Frankie’s 
face as they sat in the taxi, and waited for her to 
praise it. 

“Don’t you like it?” he asked, at last, as she said 
nothing. 

“Oh, yes, dear,” she answered, touched by his wistful 
tone, and, as she very rarely did, kissed him. “It’s beauti- 
ful. Too beautiful!” 


Ill 

Horace lived in an overwhelmingly grand apartment 
house on Riverside Drive. His private door was opened 
by a man servant, and Frances was conducted to a 
boudoir where a French maid waited to assist her. She 
was a little nervous at the unexpectedly sumptuous tone 
of the establishment; she wasn’t accustomed to rich peo- 
ple. She dreaded meeting the mistress of such a house- 
hold, not only on account of the unfavourable reports 
she had had from Lionel, but also on account of her 
richness. A most ignoble awe, from which no living 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


146 

soul is immune. ... It might be too that she felt a 
warning shudder, could divine the shadow of the pain 
she was to suffer here. She never again entered that 
house, but she remembered always every detail of what 
she had seen there. It was the setting, the stage of such 
an unforgettably bitter scene. 

She was glad to find Horace alone, although she was 
not pleased by her hostess’s delay. He was in the 
‘‘library,” a panelled room, dimly and richly lighted by 
Oriental lamps and crowded with massive furniture. 
(She didn’t see any books.) He was very cordial and 
kind, though melancholy. He apologised for Julie. 

“She was late getting in,” he explained, “and it takes 
her the deuce of a time to get herself ready.” 

It certainly did, for it was quite half an hour more be- 
fore she appeared. 

“I’m sorry, people !” she cried, running into the room, 
and swept them all with a smile. 

This Julie, the impossible, the cruel, the vulgar! This 
sparkling lovely thing, with her piquant dark face and 
•the figure of a nymph! Frances found it hard to believe. 

. . . Except that she was over-dressed, in a glittering 
sort of ball gown, and that her voice was not at all 
agreeable. 

“I shouldn’t call her ‘impossible,’ ” she thought. “In 
fact, I think she’s fascinating.” 

And so long as she confined herself solely to looking 
at Julie, she did find her fascinating. She was very 
young — years younger than Horace, and filled with an 
ardent vitality. She produced an extraordinary effect of 
brilliancy, although her conversation was far from 
clever. She was one of those people who absolutely take 
one’s breath away; her glances, her gestures, her gipsy 
vividness wrought a spell ; one could watch her in a daze, 
indefinitely. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 147 

But the fascination wore off a bit for Frances after 
she had experienced something of Julie’s famous rude- 
ness. She was utterly ignored. Horace tried to talk to 
her, but he was not fluent, and his dinner engrossed him. 
She had nothing to do but listen to Julie talking to 
Lionel, a torrent of gossip about people not personally 
known to either of them, glib comment on plays and 
books and fashions and dances. Lionel’s interest lay 
in just these things; he had as many stories as she: those 
mysterious tales of prominent people, confidential to a 
degree, heard from someone who really knows ... If 
Lionel hated and despised Julie and she loathed him, they 
dissembled it well. They were friendly, they were more 
than friendly, they were comrades. He had never talked 
with such interest to Frankie! 

“Did you notice Mrs. Lord on the Avenue yesterday, 
Li ? I never saw such a fool. A skirt like that with her 
celebrated bowlegs!” 

And so on. The impossibleness of Julie was now 
fully evident to Frances, the gross vulgarity beneath her 
dainty charm, the malice, the nastiness in her shallow 
heart. She was glad Lionel didn’t like her ; she told her- 
self that his absorption in her chatter was only polite- 
ness. 

When the dinner was over, she retired with Julie to 
a little music room, where Julie began to smoke. She 
changed abruptly now that there were no men about, 
became frankly, brutally hard. 

“Well!” she said. “You’ve picked a winner! When 
Horace told me Li was going to be married, I couldn’t 
believe it. I told him there wasn’t a girl on earth who’d 
be such a fool.” 

“Why?” asked Frances coldly. 

“The boy’s a joke, my dear child! A perfect joke! 
The biggest idiot there is. He spent all the money his 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


148 

mother left him in two years, just making a fool of him- 
self. And now he expects to sit down on Horace for 
the rest of his little life. It makes me sick.” 

Frances had grown rather pale. 

‘‘I suppose he thinks he is welcome in his brother’s 
house,” she said. 

“Lord ! He knows Fm sick and tired of his hanging 
about. It’s not that! He doesn’t care whether he’s 
welcome or not. He worries us to death. And that 
chump of a Horace always gives in to him. I only hope 
you’ll be able to do something with him. I’ve told old 
Horace we didn’t understand that in this country — a 
young, able-bodied man sitting round the house, living on 
someone else. I said if Horace had any money to waste, 
he could waste it on me. I can do with all he’s got I” 

Frances, shocked, outraged, stunned by this sudden 
and vigorous attack, tried to rally. 

“He does work,” she said. 

*Work! My God! Horace told me himself what an 
infernal nuisance Li is in the office. He comes in late 
and fiddles about a bit, and then goes uptown again. 
Work! He just likes to call the money he gets out of 
Horace a salary instead of graft. It comforts his little 
pride. Let’s see your ring!” she demanded suddenly. 

Frances took it off and handed it to her. 

“Two carats! And look at the setting! For God’s 
sake! I bet poor Horace had to shell out heavily for 
that!” 

Frances did not put it on again; she held it in her 
hand. She was in anguish, so great that she was afraid 
she would not be able to hide it much longer. It called 
for every ounce of self-control she possessed to speak 
in a fairly natural voice. 

“I didn’t understand the situation,” she said, “and I’m 
sure — ^he didn’t — entirely realise ” 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


149 


‘‘Fve spoken plainly enough to make him ‘realise/ No; 
he’s a hopeless case; I only wanted to warn you that 
Horace isn’t going to take care of a whole family. Oh, 
don’t get furious! I know you didn’t know about it I 
Only Li’s a grafter born and bred.” 

“You misjudge him,” said Frances sternly. She wasn’t 
going to be routed by this horrible little savage. “I 
don’t think you’re able to understand a man of his 
type.” 

“My Lord! I’ve met dozens like him. Just a nice, 
harmless little grafter. You’ll find them in every hotel 
in the city. My dear child, I know men mighty well. 
I’ve had experience!” 

Then, to Frankie’s indescribable relief, she left the 
topic of Lionel and began a history of her own life, with 
particular emphasis on her suitors. Her father had been 
a “Cattle King,” she told her, in all seriousness, a million- 
aire. She had been brought up on a ranch, and then 
sent to school in the East, to “finish.” 

‘'The best school in New York,” she said. “Dad had a 
hard time to get me in. But I hated it. I had a great 
deal of talent for drawing, so I just walked out of the 
school and got a studio in Washington Square, and 
plunged right in. I got lots of work from the start, 
fashions and society sketches. Popper was tickled to 
death. He said he’d double every cent I made, and he 
did. He likes independence. But I gave that all up 
when I got married. I’ve taken up dancing. I’ve got 
a regular gift for it. I could go on the stage to-morrow 
if I wanted. I’ve had offers from the big managers.” 

The men came in then, and she offered an exhibition. 

“I’ll show you the dance I’m going to do in the Fresh 
Air Fund Bazaar. You play, Li; go over this music 
while I get ready,” and she disappeared for a long time. 

Lionel sat down at the piano and began obediently to 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


150 

try the music she had handed him; a sensual, banal 
thing, called new, but very reminiscent. He turned his 
head to smile at Frankie, and then gave his attention to 
the music, innocently satisfied with the answering smile 
he had had from her. The light from the lamp shone 
on his sleek head; he looked so young, so very slim, so 
fragile and well-bred; her heart ached for him in his 
unconscious shame. Of course, of course, he didn’t 
realise! She no more despised him than a mother de- 
spises a greedy child. 

Julie came back in a costume which completed 
Frankie’s nightmare of misery and shame. She called it 
Hindu. Her slim legs and feet were bare, and her body 
so gauzily covered . . . Frances involuntarily glanced 
at her husband, but he was staring up at the smoke rings 
he was blowing. 

Her dancing was good — quite beautiful. But Frances 
was not an artist, not an aesthete; she was something of 
a prig and very much of a Defoe. A little — a tiny bit 
more of either in her nature would have turned the bal- 
ance and sent her to her feet in terrible indignation. 
However, she was able to endure the exhibition with ap- 
parent coolness, watched the half-naked Julie twisting 
supplely before Lionel’s eyes without a visible trace of 
what she felt. 

But how immeasurably glad she was to get away! 

‘Tlease send away the taxi,” she asked Lionel. ‘T’d 
like to walk a little way. And talk to you.” 

Cheerful and unsuspicious, he complied. 

“Wonderful night !” he remarked, looking with grate- 
ful eyes at the river. 

She clutched his arm. 

“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, and he was startled to hear 
a sob in her voice. 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


151 

‘‘What’s wrong, dearest girl?” he asked anxiously, 
trying to see her face in the dark. 

“That awful — that dreadful, disgusting woman 

she said, in a broken voice. “Oh, Lionel! You can’t 
imagine! ...” 

“Did she say anything to upset you, old girl?” 

“It’s not that It’s ... I didn’t know ” 

She dried her eyes and spoke more calmly, all her 
courage, all her pride, all her love impelling her. She 
held out the ring, glittering marvellously in the light of 
a street lamp. 

He stared at it in stupefaction. 

“Frances!” he cried. 

“Please take it ! Lionel ! My dear boy ! I couldn’t wear 
it. . . . She said — he had to pay for it. That it’s all his 
money. . . . Oh, my dear old Lionel, don’t you see? 
I’ll wait — till you can get me one — of your own!” 

Regardless of passers-by, he put his arm about her 
waist. 

“Frankie,” he said, “I’ll do exactly what you want— 
always. I know I’m not nearly good enough for you. 
Only tell me what you want me to do.” 

“I want you to be a manT she cried passionately, and 
began to cry again. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


I 

Frances was a prey to remorse that night. She took 
into consideration Lionel’s upbringing, Horace’s in- 
dulgence to him, his own generous and careless nature, 
and she felt that she had hurt him cruelly and unjustly. 
The thought of his flouted ring brought her almost to 
tears. 

He was very proud, very sensitive in his own queer 
way. She was even a little afraid that he wouldn’t come 
back, or that, if he did, he would be changed. 

It was a great relief to hear him through the telephone, 
in quite his usual voice, at his usual hour of five o’clock. 

“What about a walk this evening?” he suggested. 
“I’ll be waiting at the door for you at eight.” 

He was remarkably solemn and correct ; he took 
Frankie’s arm without a word and set off toward Madison 
Avenue. It was a warm, misty evening in late Septem- 
ber, enervating weather. Frankie was tired and nerv- 
ous and filled with apprehension. Was he going to re- 
proach her? 

He pulled out of his pocket a little bundle of papers 
fastened by a rubber band, and gave it to her. 

“My bank book,” he said, “and all the other stuff. 
You’d better take charge of it, old girl. . . . I’ll tell 
you just how I stand, and you can tell me what I’d 
better do.” 

“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, “You dear old thing! And I 
was so afraid you’d be hurt or offended!” 

152 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


153 

‘‘I think you’re right — all that you said,” he answered 
seriously. “I want to make a new start — begin over again. 
Only it’s rather hopeless. I’ve a hundred and five pounds 
a year income from my mother, and that’s all. No pros- 
pects. Not a relative who could leave me a sou. And 
eighty dollars in the bank. Rather dismal, isn’t it?” 

‘^Not a bit! Fancy having an income, and calling 
the outlook dismal ! And you’re young, you’ve got every- 
thing before you. You’re sure to find a good job before 
very long ” 

“Yes, but my dear girl, that eighty dollars is all I’ve 
got to live on for three months and a half, until my next 
remittance comes. Unless I stop on in Horace’s 
office ” 

“No, no! You mustn’t stay there! Please, please 
break off all that, won’t you ?” 

“Whatever you say, old girl. But where am I to live 
if I leave Horace’s?” 

“I’ll find you a place,” she said, rashly. 

“I’ll have to explain to him, though. . . . What shall 
I say?” 

He really did not understand quite what was expected 
of him, or what he was doing. It was somehow a fine 
thing to renounce his comfort and security, and declare 
himself independent, and as long as Frances wished it, 
he was willing to do it. But it was a bit — theatrical. 
After all these years to refuse old Horace’s money. 

“I’ll pop in and take lunch with him to-morrow,” he 
said. 

“And tell him that you’re going to stand on your own 
feet,” urged Frances. “He’ll understand. And think 
all the more of you. Tell him — be sure — that you ap- 
preciate all he’s done for you, but that now you’re going 
to take care of yourself.” 

He agreed. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


154 

"‘Fll come and tell you about it as soon as it’s over,” 
he said. “You can expect me about three.” 

She didn’t know with what a heavy heart he went upon 
this errand, or how well it proved his love and admiration 
for her. She didn’t know, or suspect, what he felt for 
Horace, and how he dreaded hurting him. Otherwise, 
she might have understood that he would necessarily be 
stupid and clumsy and muddle the whole thing, as he 
did. . . . 


II 

Miss Eppendorfer was lying down in her bedroom, 
not to be disturbed. Kurt was not coming that evening, 
and the poor woman had seized the chance of gratifying 
her long-starved vice. So that Frances was as good as 
alone. She waited half an hour for Lionel without 
thinking much about it; they wouldn’t be able to talk 
anyway. She couldn’t go out and leave the authoress in 
her present condition, and she never entertained Lionel 
in the flat. They both considered it incorrect. Still, he 
could tell her what Horace had said. She was anxious 
about that interview. She was afraid that Horace might 
have begged him to go on living with him ; that he might 
have weakened Lionel’s very new independence. 

An hour passed, and she grew a little restless. It 
wasn’t like Lionel to keep her waiting. Why didn’t he 
telephone? She picked up a book and began to read. 
Another hour. She made herself a cup of tea and tried 
to be angry, with all the time a dull alarm in her heart. 
Six o’clock! Her anxiety grew unbearable, in that 
silent flat, worse than alone. She was not much given 
to tears, but she shed some now. It grew dark; she 
lighted a lamp and pulled down the shades and flung 
herself on the sofa. 

She thought the same things any woman would have 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


155 

thought ; that he had met with an accident, been run over, 
that he was injured, dying, perhaps dead. Then that he 
had deserted her, because he no longer loved her. Then 
that there was some mistake, that he had meant Sun- 
day. . . . 

At last there was a ring at the bell, and she flew to open 
the door. Lionel stood outside. 

“Lionel!’' she cried. “I’ve been so worried! What 
has been the matter?” 

He said nothing, made no move to enter. 

“Come in,” she said impatiently, “and tell me what’s 
kept you.” 

Her alarm increased every minute; there was some- 
thing queer about him. . . . 

She took his arm and pulled him gently into the sitting 
room ; then when she was able to look at him in the lamp- 
light, she knew. She had seen that silly smile, that flush 
before, had heard that thick and faltering voice. 

Her heart seemed to stop beating; her blazing eyes 
were fixed on his face. 

“You’re drunk,” she said, with what contempt, dis- 
gust, and bitterness ! “You’d better go.” 

But he sat down on the sofa and began to cry for- 
lornly, like a child. 

“Stop!” she said. “Stop! Miss Eppendorfer’ll hear 
you.” 

“I can’t!” he sobbed. 

She closed the door into the hall, and went back to 
the sofa to find him incredibly and suddenly asleep. She 
couldn’t at first believe in a slumber so very sudden. 
She shook him. 

“Get up and go away!” she said, but it had no effect. 
There he lay, breathing heavily through his mouth, 
flushed, oddly serious in his expression, like a weary 
victor in some mighty struggle. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


156 

Frances gave way to a sort of frenzy, 
can’t have two of you!” she cried. 

Recklessly she opened the door of Miss Eppendorfer’s 
room, found her also sound asleep, not to be wakened. 
She revolted utterly then, locked herself into her own 
little room, careless of what might happen to those 
others. 

For the first time in her life she remained awake all 
night. Early in the morning, before it was quite light, 
she slipped into the kitchen to make tea, and then went 
again to wake Lionel. This time it was not so hard. 
She gave him a cup of tea, stood in stony silence while 
he gulped it down, handed him his hat and overcoat, 
and firmly pushed him, dazed and passive, out of the 
door. 


Ill 

Miss Eppendorfer remained in bed until noon; she 
was “better” she said, but exhausted and listless. Fran- 
ces was inordinately busy. She typed page after page 
of the authoress’s manuscript, and when there was abso- 
lutely no more to copy, set to work cleaning the table 
silver. She did not wish to think. It was the end of 
the world. Nothing ahead, nothing she could endure to 
contemplate. 

She hated Miss Eppendorfer because Lionel had been 
drunk. It was an illogical and unjust feeling, but she 
couldn’t repress it. She kept away from her as much 
as possible. She was very thankful to see her go out, 
arm in arm, with her cousin Kurt, to a concert for which 
she had bought tickets for a fabulous price. She thought 
she would go out herself, perhaps to church; she had 
begun to get ready, in fact, when Lionel arrived. Lionel 
exactly the same, nonchalant, superior, not a trace even 
of fatigue 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


157 

‘The hall boy told me Miss E. and the German chap 
had gone out, so I thought I’d come up,” he said. 

Frances was frigidly silent. 

“I owe you an explanation,” he went on, “only — I 
haven’t any. I . . . had an awful row with Horace, and 
it knocked me up, and I . . . tried to — ^more or less — 
forget it.” 

“No doubt you succeeded.” 

She spoke with cold precision, like a school teacher to 
a prejudged culprit; and he, acknowledging her claims 
as he always did, forced himself to explain. It was 
wretched for him, an almost intolerable humiliation to 
be called to account in this way; he was ashamed of 
himself, and he longed passionately to drop the subject 
forever. But Frances was the woman who had promised 
to marry him, and he felt he owed it to her. 

“You see, he was offended. . . . He thought — wanted 
tne to be more — gradual. Stop on in his office, at least. 
And in the end, we quarrelled. I told him I wouldn’t take 
anything more from him — all that you advised, and so 
forth. And he — but what’s the use in repeating all that? 
It’s the first row we’ve ever had.” 

He could not tell her how he regretted old Horace, 
with what affection and pain he remembered his benefits ; 
couldn’t explain how much this “row” had hurt him. He 
had been horribly tactless and had wounded and in- 
furiated Horace, without making it clear to him — or to 
himself — what it was about. 

If he expected sympathy he was disappointed. If he 
had only apologised, said he was ashamed and sorry, she 
would have melted completely ; it was this insistence upon 
the misfortune of having quarrelled with Horace, this 
cool passing over of his own beastliness, that she couldn’t 
stand. She didn’t even ask him to sit down, but re- 
mained standing herself, looking straight at him. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


158 

“rm awfully sorry/’ he said, “that I came here like 
that. Awfully sorry. It wasn’t fair to you. But I didn’t 
realize what I was doing.” 

Frances laughed shortly. 

“Don’t bother to apologise. Why should I object to 
being alone all night with two drunken beasts. ” 

“I say !” he protested. 

“It’s evident,” she went on, “that you don’t know at 
all how I look at that. How I loathe it. I’d rather not 
talk about it at all. I’d rather you’d go.” 

“You don’t mean that, Frankie, old girl!” 

“I do!” 

He searched her face. 

“Frankie, you don’t mean ... I see you do, though. 
Very well. I’ll go. . . . But, Frankie! . . . Good-bye!” 

“Good-bye!” said Frankie. 

IV 

Frankie resolved to forget Lionel. She tried her best. 

“I made a mistake,” she said to herself. “Very well! 
It’s over and done with now. I’m not going to be a 
sentimental idiot. It’s overT 

It wasn’t, though. Her loneliness was bitter, her 
wound profound ; she had nothing to sustain her but her 
own self-righteousness — cold comfort in that. It was all 
very well to tell herself Lionel was no good; whether he 
was or not, she wanted him back. Worst of all was her 
worry about him. She was convinced that without her 
he was lost, was helpless — ^what all women think about 
their men. She had the loftiest views about women any- 
way, and their influence. They were ordained the 
spiritual monitors of men, as well as the natural guar- 
dians of their healths and pocketbooks. Woman was 
the practical one, the conserver, the frequenter of savings 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 159 

banks; she was also the beauty and the charm of life. 
What remained was Man. 

Frances had planned a future for them with care; 
and little by little she fancied she was improving the 
man himself, making him more responsible, more sedate, 
more what a woman demands of a husband. She was 
too intelligent to understand him. She couldn’t manage 
him and comprehend him as an ignorant, emotional 
woman would have done. With every new idea, every 
book read, she had retreated from the position that was 
her birthright. 

She thought over Lionel with a passionate desire to do 
right; tried to obtain guidance from her brain while her 
heart was dumb. She wondered whether it did him more 
good to see how seriously she regarded his offence, or 
whether it would have helped him more to forgive him. 
Never considered it simply as a matter of cruelty or 
kindness. She was so concerned with thinking of what 
was morally best for Lionel that she neglected her own 
soul’s good. 

And without doubt her soul suffered. She was be- 
coming irritable, intolerant, over-haughty, wrapped up 
in her own affairs. She needed Lionel badly, needed his 
carelessness, his sweet temper. In spite of that, she 
thought she was “getting over” it splendidly; being 
sensible, and so on. She was able to eat and to sleep and 
to live as usual; even looked the same. And then, sud- 
denly, one night, woke up with a piercing pain, a most 
irresistible tenderness and longing for him. 

“How could I have been so heartless!” she asked her- 
self, sitting up in bed, and clasping her hands hysteri- 
cally. “What did it matter, what he did? What do I 
care about that? Lionel! Darling! I want you back 


i6o 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


She got up then and there and wrote to him, address- 
ing it in care of Horace. 


V 

He came the next evening. Quite in accordance with 
his extreme character he had in ten days’ time become 
unnecessarily wretched and shabby in looks and manners. 
He was even thinner. 

He had looked and looked for a job, he said, but no 
one would have an inexperienced man of his age. He 
was in despair. So that Frances could not for an in- 
stant maintain her injured majesty, but had to comfort 
and fortify him, even to cry over him a little. 

‘‘Don’t be discouraged!” she entreated, stroking his 
hair. “Poor old boy!” 

“But I haven’t a penny! I used that money in the 
bank. I’ve moved into a cheap boarding-house. But 
still I can’t manage. And my remittance doesn’t come 
iintil January.” 

Followed an extraordinary period for the lovers. 
Lionel pawned his watch, his travelling-bag, his cuff- 
buttons, one thing after another. He would get down 
to his last dollar and come to Frankie, white with despair, 
and she would think of something else to do. He would 
come back from each of these visits to the pawn-shop 
jubilant and pleading for a “celebration,” but Frankie 
never permitted it. He put everything into her hands 
without reserve, and received back what she allowed him, 
unquestioningly. They frequented cinemas instead of 
theatres; he found a cheaper brand of cigarettes. He 
did it all, too, with such generosity and simplicity that 
Frankie was utterly enslaved. He was her child, her 
ewe lamb, she watched over him, planned for him, guided 
him, with passionate devotion. 

He alternated between ghastly worry that made him 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY i6i 

talk about suicide, and the' wildest hopefulness. It was 
Frances who bore the brunt of the misery. She fretted 
continually, couldn’t sleep at night. She thought and 
schemed and planned for means of sustaining this be- 
loved creature, above all trying to secure him proper 
food three times a day without his suspecting that some 
of its cost came from her own pocket. Luckily he almost 
always forgot how much he had given her to keep for 
him, and how much he had spent out of it. He didn’t 
imagine the suffering he caused her. On the contrary, 
he believed that his fits of extravagant gaiety, in reality 
quite beyond his control, were contrived especially to 
cheer up Frances. 

He was sometimes ready to admit to himself that 
Frankie’s disposition was not quite what he had once 
thought it. She was absolutely cross. Time after time 
she refused to go out with him, even to the “movies”; 
she said they couldn’t afford it. 

“But you don’t realise,” he protested, “how much I 
need a bit of recreation.” 

“I realise how much you’re going to need a bit of 
money,” she replied grimly. “You can’t be childish. 
You’ll have to do without everything but necessities for 
a while.” 

VI 

Inspiration came from a wholly unexpected source. 
Frankie was sitting in her room in the dark one evening, 
after a walk with Lionel, exhausted from her effort to 
encourage him in a mood of black despair. She had 
drawn her chair up to the window and sat looking out 
over the roof of the next house at the cloudy sky. There 
was the usual noise from the court, the shrill children 
who never went to bed, the phonographs, a woman sing- 
ing in a piercing, artificial voice. She was used to it 


INVINCIBL MINNIE 


162 

now, scarcely heard it, but it hlled her ears, and she was 
unaware of Miss Eppendorfer’s entrance until she 
touched her on the shoulder. 

“I knocked and knocked !” said she. '‘I wanted to ask 
you to make me a cup of coffee ; Pm so nervous.'’ 

Frankie said ‘Of course,’ but her voice was weary, and 
Miss Eppendorfer noticed it. 

“What’s* the trouble, my dear?” she asked, kindly. 
“Let’s sit here and talk a while.” 

She sat down on the bed where she could reach out 
and lay a friendly hand on Frankie’s arm. 

“I’ve noticed — it’s not curiosity. . . . It’s only that 
I’m very fond of you — you can’t imagine how fond of 
you, my dear. ... I don’t expect you to return it. I 
know I’m not lovable. And probably you despise me 
for — lots of things. But, my dear ! My dear! I do wish 
you so well! I’d do anything! If you’d like to tell me, per- 
haps I could help. . . . I’ve had experience enough. I 
could understand.” 

Frances was silent. She couldn’t bring herself to con- 
fide in Miss Eppendorfer. 

“I think I know,” the other went on. “It’s money, isn’t 
it? You want to marry, but you’re afraid.” 

“Not afraid,” said Frances, nettled. “It’s only that I 

don’t want to be stupid — rash I don’t think it’s right 

to marry on nothing. I’d rather wait ten years.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” said the authoress. “But 
tell me about it.” 

Frances hesitated a moment. 

“You see,” she began. “I’m afraid that perhaps I 
made a mistake — advised him wrongly. You see, he was 
depending entirely on his brother — living with him. He’d 
never really thought how — that it wasn’t quite — ^very 
self-respecting. And I asked him to stop, to try to stand 
on his own feet. And I’m not sure if he’s able to do 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 163 

that. He has nothing now, except a little more than a 
hundred pounds a year or so.’* 

‘‘Except!” said Miss Eppendorfer. 

“Oh, of course, it helps. But the trouble is, he’s per- 
fectly inexperienced. He can’t seem to find a job. 
We’ve — he has answered advertisements and registered 
at agencies, and nothing’s any good. Fm so afraid of 
his getting completely discouraged and going back to 
his brother again. It’s so wretched for him. There’s no 
chance of our being married for years ” 

“Why?” 

“We couldn’t both live on a hundred pounds a year — 
about five hundred dollars!” 

“Why should you try? You’re earning something, and 
under no expense. Why don’t you get married anyway, 
and go on as you are?” 

Frankie was amazed. 

“I never thought of such a thing. It ... we couldn’t 
have any home. ...” 

“Does that matter? You’d have each other. Oh, if 
I were you, if I were you. . . ! I shouldn’t think of any- 
thing but — just having each other, just your love. I’d 
never think of a home or money. Only of the man I 
loved.” 

Her voice broke, and her hand on Frankie’s arm 
trembled. 

“My dear, I’m speaking against my own interests, for 
of course I don’t want to lose you. . . . But you don’t 
understand, you don’t appreciate love. It isn’t a home 
that you want. My dear! My dear!' And would you 
let him wait and eat out his heart, for years, for your 
vanity, until he could give you all the silly little things 
you think you want? You don’t know men, you don’t 
know life; you don’t know how very short a time we 
have for love. You don’t know him. You don’t know 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


164 

anything. If you did, you wouldn’t let this go! You’d 
be happy while you could, you’d make him happy.” 

Frances didn’t stir; there was absolute silence for a 
long time. Then she got up. 

“I’ll make the coffee now,” she said, and, in spite of 
herself, couldn’t keep a trace of gentleness out of her 
tone, something that approached tenderness. She hated 
sentimentality, but — no use denying that she was deeply 
moved by the poor woman’s vehemence, by the thought 
she had conveyed. Of course, the advice of Miss Eppen- 
dorfer was not to be taken too seriously, and yet, couldn’t 
she be right on some points? She attended to the coffee 
with earnestness, thinking all the while. What if she 
had been cold and selfish, and made her own dear boy un- 
happy? A coward? . . . And a faint realisation of the 
truth not fully seen or known till much later came upon 
her, of the pitiful folly of waiting, of patience and of 
prudence in this poor life so short and so hazardous. 

“I will! I will!” she said to herself. “He shan’t 
struggle on alone. I won't lose my happiness — our happi- 
ness. I’m not afraid !” 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


I 

She hurried downstairs to meet Lionel the next eve- 
ning, flushed and resolute. 

“Let’s walk!” she said. 

“It’s raining ” 

“I don’t care. I want to talk to you. I must 1” 

He didn’t approve of walking in the rain; he thought 
it imprudent and eccentric, so that he was somewhat stiff ; 
but she took no notice of that. She thrust her hand 
through his arm and squeezed it a little. 

“Lionel!” she whispered, “Shall we get married?” 

“My dearest girl!” he cried. “You know there’s noth- 
ing on God’s earth I want so much. But ” 

“No! Listen! We can!” 

And she told him Miss Eppendorfer’s plan. He re- 
fused violently; it wasn’t fair to Frankie; he would be 
a cad, a beast. 

“You’ll be much more of a beast if you won’t. We 
can be happy. I’ll save up, and after you find a job, 
you can save too, so that we can soon have a home of our 
own. And until then, of course, we’ll keep it a secret. 
But, oh, Lionel, I do so want us to be safely married, 
so that no one can separate us. So that if you were to 
be sick, I could look after you.” 

He comprehended perfectly and sympathised with 
that curious and touching idea of all lovers; that if only 
they can be married, no ill can touch them; they are 
safe. 


165 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


1 66 

“I can't!’’ he said. ‘‘Absolutely I can’t. Don’t you 
see, old girl, I want to give you something — I don’t want 
to take everything from you. I want ” 

“Don’t let pride stand in the way!” she entreated. 
“Lionel, only suppose one of us were to die! Dear, 
darling old boy, let’s be brave. Let’s just go ahead, and 
if things are hard, why, we’ll go through with them to- 
gether.” 

“I ought not,” he said miserably. “It’s not fair to 
you.” 

He felt obliged to bring forward all the objections 
which obviously presented themselves, but he did so 
without spirit. For the preposterous idea appealed to 
him irresistibly. He said, “Wait,” but he didn’t mean 
it. He abhorred waiting at all times, and above all, 
waiting for Frankie. She kindled him, thrilled him with 
her serious madness. 

“We can’t waste our best years,” said Frankie. 
“Really, Lionel, it’s not a silly plan. I’m not rash, you 
know it. I know this will be the best plan for us both.” 

She was determined to hold him tightly, to defend 
him from his own weakness, to fortify him. For this, 
any sacrifice of pride, of worldly advantage, was justi- 
fied. She had to marry Lionel to save him, even if in 
saving him everything else was lost. 

“I’m not convinced,” he insisted, “but, old girl, I 
haven’t got the strength to refuse. I’d have to be more 
than mortal to refuse to marry my beautiful girl.” 

“Stop being so wretched!” she ordered. “We’re go- 
ing to be happy. We’re going to help each other.” 

He caught her in his arms. 

“Darling!” he cried, “I’ll — I’d do anything to make 
you happy. I’ll try. I’m not good enough, but I’ll try. 
I — absolutely worship you, Frankie!” 


FRANKIE’S BRIEF DAY 


167 


And added, more quietly: 

‘‘And when you’re my wife, I’ll amount to something.” 

II 

He went to the Grand Central with her on Christmas 
Eve, to say good-bye, for conscience compelled her to go 
back to Brownsville Landing for the holidays. They 
were both in a mood of rapture, although Frankie was 
somewhat obsessed by finances. She had given Lionel 
five envelopes, each containing just enough money for 
one of the five days she was to be away. 

“Now remember!” she warned, “that’s all you’ve got, 
until I get back. I’ll come early on New Year’s morn- 
ing, and Miss Eppendorfer’ll give me my cheque. She 
never keeps me waiting a day. Then I’ll lend you that 
until the fifteenth. But do please, please be careful of 
what you’ve got! Remember it’s all you’ve got! You 
will be sensible, won’t you?” 

“No. Frankie, aren’t you sorry to think of my being 
all alone on Christmas day in a beastly cheap boarding 
house ?” 

“You know I am! But don’t think about it, dear; 
think about the sixteenth.” 

They had planned to be married then, the very day 
after his quarterly remittance came. 

“Five minutes to! We’d better go down to the lower 
level. Oh, dear old boy, I do hate to leave you! You 
will be careful, won’t you? About everything. About 
money — and you know what !” 

“Dashed if I do! Money and what?” 

Her eyes filled with tears. 

“About — drinking,” she whispered. 

“Oh, by Jove!” he cried, startled. “But, my dear girl. 


1 68 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

I don’t go in for that, you know. I’m not quite a 
drunkard.” 

“I know! I know, darling! Only I had to say it. 
Don’t be ofifended !” 

course not, you blessed baby!” 

‘‘And you will take at least one glass of milk a day, 
won’t you? You’re so thin! And ” 

“I shall! I shall!” he cried, laughing. “Come on, 
old girl! The gates are open. I say! It’s perfectly all 
right to kiss you good-bye, isn’t it? I might be your 
brother — or your husband. Everyone does, eh?” 

She reflected. 

“Yes,” she said, with a blush, and raised her face to 
his. “Good-bye ! God bless you, my own boy ! Take care 
of yourself! I shall think of you every minute!” 

“Good-bye, my beautiful girl!” he answered. “God 
bless you ! Come back to me soon !” 

He stood watching her down the platform, strong, 
eager, and splendid. Saw her go, never to return to 
him. 


BOOK THREE; MR. PETERSEN IS 
BROUGHT LOW 



CHAPTER SEVENTEEJT 


I 

Mr. Petersen had remained faithful to the memory 
of Minnie for five years. It cannot be said that he had 
grieved, or suffered ; his attachment had not been a very 
passionate one; yet' Minnie had not misread him. He 
really had ^wanted to marry her, had felt for her a mild 
and kindly sort of love. 

He had not, however, been over-anxious for marriage. 
He cared little for women; in all these five years his 
heart had never been touched, and he had formed no 
ties. Nor was he lonely, except very rarely, perhaps in 
a Spring twilight, or while listening to certain beloved 
pieces of music. He had the most admirable sort of 
reputation. Temperate, honest, thrifty, hi^life was with- 
out a secret ; he didn’t talk about his affairs, but he was 
perfectly willing that others should find out about them. 
In his own sober way, he cherished a terrific pride, not 
so much for his achievements, as for his spotless honour. 
He was the Socialist of the world’s dream, the man 
who harmed no one, who was always just, always open 
to argument, always generous. As far as was humanly 
and sensibly possible he put into practice his convictions. 
He fraternised with the workmen — the intelligent ones — 
asked them to dinner on Sunday. He admitted making 
and keeping a considerable sum of money, and was al- 
ways ready and willing to explain this course. 

'The only valuable Socialist,” said he, "is the one who 
works for the advancement of all. How do you wish 
me to so work then if I strip myself of power? Money, 
171 


172 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


in our modern world, is power. The Socialists must first 
of all concentrate money in their own hands.^^ 

He quite satisfied his comrades. He was respected 
everywhere, because he was without arrogance or ostenta- 
tion, and yet had so admirable a balance in the bank. 
He had made most of his money through a ‘^development 
park,” which he had planned and executed; scores of 
little houses along orderly streets, planted with saplings ; 
each house with its lawn, its tiny back garden, all neat, 
bright and prosperous. They were built for the factory 
workers, and Mr. Petersen had included a number of 
what he called “built-in features” ; little bookcases, china 
closets, window seats, and so on. He knew what the 
comrades wanted, and he gave them honest and generous 
measure for their money. How could he not succeed ? 

He lived in the same solid, modest house in the village, 
with the same Swede and his wife serving him in So- 
cialistic fashion. In appearance too he was quite un- 
changed; immense, red-faced, fair-haired, blonde- 
moustached; slow, good-tempered, rather silent. Within 
himself, however, he was conscious of those profound 
changes we all experience and which the world ignores. 
He had read, had thought, had seen ; he had grown. He 
believed himself in every way a better and a stronger 
man. Although he had felt very little. 

Minnie’s abrupt disappearance had distressed him and 
worried him ; he had made many enquiries about her, but 
her sister was surprisingly curt and discouraged him. 

“She’s gone to New York,” she told him. “She has 
a position there. I don’t hear from her often.” 

There came a day when she even said, biting her lip: 

“I’d rather not talk about Minnie. She^ — we’re not on 
very good terms.” 

This had caused him a pang, for he surmised that it 
meant a man. He had said he was sorry, and he was. 
He pitied that bright, lovely Frances, condemned to 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 173 

lonely drudgery. He wished to be nice to her; to help 
her; he attempted to make little friendly visits now and 
then, very patient with her growing irritability. He saw 
how things were; she didn’t get on with the old lady as 
Minnie had, relations were strained. He watched the 
four years pass, crushing her, embittering her, ageing 
her. Her youth died, she became severe, still beauti- 
ful but no longer charming. She managed the moribund 
old house better than her sister ever had done, but 
it had lost its old air of homeliness. It was deserted, 
it was desolate. She earned a bit of money by baking 
cakes for the Woman’s Exchange, and embroidering 
tablecloths. Like her grandmother, she ‘‘managed,” 
never able, of course, to pay the accumulating debts, 
never a penny the richer at the end of a year than at 
the beginning; simply keeping her head above water, 
procuring food for them to eat, clothes for them to 
wear, maintaining an appearance not too humiliating for 
a Defoe. It was touching and horrible. Mr. Petersen 
urged her to come back into his office again, but she 
refused. 

“You could get some young girl from the village to 
look after your grandmother,” he said, but she stopped 
him. 

“Not at any price could I get anyone to do what I do.” 

It was quite true. A servant would have required 
lunch, which Frankie didn’t; would have expected to be 
warm in winter, to rest in the terrible heat which over- 
whelmed the river valley in mid-summer. 

Mr. Petersen waived the question of rent. After a 
time it was mentioned no more. The two women didn’t 
thank him; it seemed not only proper but essential that 
Defoes should live in the Defoe house. Mr. Petersen, 
after all, was a stranger, an intruder, a Swede. And he 
didn’t need the money, either. So he didn’t get it. 

In the middle of a terrible winter the old lady died of 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


174 

pneumonia, and, as soon as the funeral had taken place, 
conducted in a seemly manner, Frankie went off. He 
heard nothing more of her. She never wrote to him, or 
to anyone he knew. 

He remodelled the house. With what curious, painful 
feelings did he watch its dismantlement, walk into that 
gloomy room Minnie had so long inhabited and see for 
the first time its poverty. All the furniture was left there; 
doubtless it belonged to the creditors, but none of them 
troubled to claim it. All old, shabby, ugly. There were 
lots of closets, cupboards, a big attic, filled with astound- 
ing rubbish, clothes, old papers, broken furniture, pic- 
tures. Whatever was worth saving, Mr. Petersen re- 
moved to his own house, the rest he burned in a sort of 
sacrificial bonfire. He saw the sagging old bed, the little 
rocking chair, the lame bureau from Minnie’s room go 
up in smoke and all the while he thought with profound 
melancholy of the brisk, pleasant little woman. He 
sighed over her, wished with all his heart that he could 
find her again and put her into his own orderly and com- 
fortable home. Solemnly he led the silly old horse, more 
provoking than ever in its senility, back to his own 
stable, while his housekeeper carried the cats. 

The house, because of its size, was destined for a 
boarding-house. That too put him in mind of intrepid 
Minnie and her venture. 

"‘Poor girl !” he thought. “A brave little soul ! What’s 
become of her, I wonder?” 


II 

This day he was not thinking about her ; he was busy 
in his office, dictating letters to his spinster stenographer, 
the sound of his drawling, hesitating voice filling the little 
room. A window was open to let in the sweet May air, 
and a breeze ruffled his hair. As usual he was in his 
shirt sleeves. 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 175 

The door was open, and in she came; said, gently: 

“Mr. Petersen!'' 

“Miss Minnie!" he cried, jumping up, and according 
to his custom, hurrying into his respectable dark coat. 
“Well, well. Miss Minnie !" 

She shook her head. 

“Mrs. Naylor," she corrected him, with a smile; the 
very- same pleasant, kindly smile. He stared at her, 
smiling himself, and shaking his head. 

“Well, well!" he repeated. 

She hadn’t changed much ; she was stouter and a trifle 
more serious; that was all. He observed that she was in 
mourning, wearing a black blouse and skirt somewhat 
like his housekeeper but dowdier and cheaper. Neverthe- 
less, she didn’t look poor; somehow you didn't pity her. 

“Mrs. Naylor," he repeated. 

“I'm a widow," she said, simply. He answered, in very 
much the same simple and friendly way — 

“I'm sorry." 

Then she said, smiling again, but with a hint of melan- 
choly : 

“I've come to you for advice again. I look on you as 
an old friend, Mr. Petersen." 

“I am!" he assured her. 

“I know it!" 

He held out a huge hand. 

“Sit down," he said. “Miss Layne, you shall have a 
holiday in honour of Mrs. Naylor's return." 

The spinster stenographer, disapproving, suspicious, 
with a comically false smile, put on a pinched little jacket 
and a hat and jerked out, nodding in duty bound to this 
odious widow. 

“Now!" said Mr. Petersen. 

Without too much emphasis, in just the quiet, well- 
bred way he admired, she told him her little story. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


1^6 

“My husband had a great deal of trouble ... in busi- 
ness, and so on. He was English, and I don’t think he 
understood our ways very well. So . . . when he . . . 
died, there wasn’t anything. Nothing at all. And I have 
a little girl. ... I sold everything I could, and then — 
somehow — I wanted to come back here — where father 
was born. . . . And I remembered all your kindness and 
I thought perhaps you’d help me — advise me.” 

“To the very best of my ability,” he said, soberly. 

“I thought of a boarding-house. Would there be a 
good chance for one here?” 

Still the same idea ; perhaps it is an obsession with the 
womanly woman. 

Mr. Petersen suggested a thorough discussion of her 
problem from every side. 

“Do you mind, then, if I bring little Sandra in?” 
Minnie asked. “I didn’t want to bother you ” 

“By all means. Where is she? I’ll fetch her.” 

“Downstairs,” said Minnie. “J^^t inside the door.” 

She was standing there with a patience that touched 
his heart, a thin, tall, little girl-baby, with limpid grey 
eyes and straight black hair. One of those indescribably 
appealing children, filled with a divine pathos, a soul- 
stirring beauty. She was very quiet, too subdued, he 
thought, and too fragile. She took his hand willingly 
and toiled up the stairs at his side; she said nothing, 
except : 

“Is Mother there?” 

“Yes, pet,” he answered. 

He knew at that instant that he was going to marry 
Minnie and take care of her and of this little creature 
too. He looked down upon its dark head with a new 
and poignant tenderness. He would be its father. 

The child ran up to Minnie and stood beside her, look- 
ing up into her face calmly. And she looked back at it 
with an expression he had never conceived her capable 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 177 

of : rapturous, idolatrous passion. Her proud eyes ques- 
tioned him, and he willingly responded. 

‘‘She is beautiful,” he said. 

“I can’t help thinking so,” said Minnie. 

Their business discussion amounted to very little. No 
one could discuss business with Minnie, anyway. It was 
an absurd idea. 

Simply, Mr. Petersen asked if he couldn’t lend her a 
bit until she had “looked round,” and without demur 
Minnie accepted. In some intangible but perfectly plain 
way she suggested that she accepted only because of her 
little Sandra and that accordingly the acceptance was 
justified, if not sanctified. Mr. Petersen was ready to 
believe this. 

“And now,” he said, when the money had changed 
hands, “there’s the problem of finding a place for you 
to live.” 

He suggested several places for her to telephone, and 
she did so. The extreme propriety of both of them for- 
bade his appearing in any such transaction. There was 
nothing suitable to be had; as a very last resort he pro- 
posed the Eagle House, and there she was obliged to go. 

“I’ll call this evening, if I may,” he said, “to see if 
you’re all right.” 

Ill 

The Eagle House was little changed from the days 
when Frankie had lunched there, the same four-story, 
brown brick building with awnings, much the worse for 
wear, boldly marked “Eagle House.” It still derived its 
support from the “Pool Room and Cafe,” reached by a 
separate entrance, but something had been done for the 
comfort of the “guest,” as well — a sun-baked, uneven 
little tennis court now appeared on the hitherto vacant 
lot beside the hotel. Inside it was just as sordid, as fly- 
blown, as horribly gloomy. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


178 

But Minnie was not fastidious. She discovered that 
there was at least one other lady stopping there, the wife 
of a visiting cotton-mill magnate, and that satisfied her. 
With her child by the hand she walked sedately through 
the lobby, thick with tobacco smoke, crowded with the 
travelling salesmen and the village loafers who composed 
the clientele of the Eagle House, and went upstairs to 
take possession of a tiny bedroom with a single bed for 
both of them. It was very cheap and that was what she 
required. She unpacked their very few belongings quite 
cheerfully and washed the little girl’s face. 

“Shan’t we be happy here!” she said. 

They were rather late in coming down, and the dining 
room was full of men, the waitresses flying round, ex- 
changing sallies with the guests, a brilliant glare pouring 
down from an electrolier high overhead. Minnie stood 
in the doorway, still holding the child’s hand, a little be- 
wildered by the noise and bustle and by the frankness 
with which everyone turned to regard them. Unassail- 
ably respectable, she met and countered the general re- 
gard and with dignity advanced to a little table in a cor- 
ner. A book was brought for the little girl to sit on and 
an interested waitress presented a grease-spotted menu. 
They ate their meal composedly ; once in a while the clear 
voice of the child could be heard asking a question. It 
behaved wonderfully well. It ate what its mother ate, 
without regard for any silly modern ideas as to what was 
suitable to its little wants — and it ate mighty little. 

They finished and went upstairs to what was known 
as the “Ladies’ Sitting Room,” a big room, unseparated 
from the hall, furnished with a mouldering “set” in ma- 
hogany and obliterated brocade ; a most desolating room, 
with one naked electric light. But how respectable, situ- 
ated as it was, directly at the head of the stairs, baldly 
open to the gaze of each and every one of the guests, 
passing by on the way to his room ! There was a table 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 179 

piled with magazines years and years old; Minnie and 
the child sat down by this and began looking them over 
in silence. So Mr. Petersen found them, and wondered 
at and pitied the precocious sobriety of the tiny girl. He 
took her on his knee and lifted up her face. 

“A beautiful child!” he said again. 

Again Minnie beamed. 

“And so good!” she said. “Never a bit of trouble! 
Mother’s comfort, aren’t you, Sandra?” 

“I are,” said the baby, seriously. 

“When does she go to bed ?” he enquired. He thought 
the little face looked pale and tired. 

“Whenever I do,” Minnie answered, and then and there 
expressed her unalterable opposition to all these silly, 
high-flown ideas that women got out of books. (Mr. 
Petersen fancied he recognised this antagonism to book 
learning.) She brought up her Sandra according to her 
own common-sense and the dictates of a mother’s heart, 
and not according to doctors and hooks. In a natural 
way. 

Mr. Petersen had nothing to say on that dangerous 
subject. He had come to ask Minnie if she would like 
to go to work in his office. 

“But I don’t know anything. I can’t do anything!” 

“You’ll learn easily.” 

“And what could I do with Sandra?” 

“I thought of that. My housekeeper’s a very fine 
woman; I spoke to her; she says she’d be glad to take 
care of the little girl all day.” 

Thus it was arranged. 

“I might as well stop here,” said Minnie, “until I’m 
more settled, anyway.” 

Mr. Petersen agreed, and as he didn’t think it proper 
that his visit should be a long one, rose to take leave. 
He clasped Minnie’s hand over the head of her child. 

“A brave, fine, sensible woman !” he thought. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


I 

As an office worker Minnie was not so successful as 
Mr. Petersen had anticipated. Not by any means. She 
tried; she was very earnest and, in a way, painstaking, 
but it was extremely difficult to teach her anything. 
Within a week Mr. Petersen was bitterly regretting Miss 
Layne, whom he had ruthlessly, although generously, dis- 
charged. He was obliged to admit that Minnie was not 
bright or quick, and neither was she accurate. She 
learned to typewrite, but how badly ! At figures she was 
hopeless. She always made mistakes. 

“But I know you’ll go over them,” she would say, in 
regard to her crooked and erroneous columns. “You’re 
sure to find any mistakes there are.” 

He remembered Frances, her capability and intelli- 
gence. He asked after her. 

“She’s gone out to the Coast,” Minnie told him. “She’s 
settled out there. I never hear from her.” 

Evidently a serious breach. He regretted it ; he thought 
what a help Frances might be to her poor sister. 

Somehow it distressed him to* see the poor plump little 
soul working away, poring over his books. He got 
Miss Layne back again, and she did all the work that 
really mattered, and left the rest for her abhorred col- 
league. She detested and despised and feared Minnie. 
She had seen at once that the artful widow was sure to 
hoodwink Mr. Petersen. 

He saw strange things going on, which amused while 
they troubled him. He saw Minnie putting pencils and 
i8o 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW i8i 

erasers and sheets and sheets of folded paper into her 
coat pocket. For her child, no doubt: but though he 
smiled at her maternal obsession, he was growing con- 
vinced that the womanly woman is out of place in a busi- 
ness office. . . . 

Her conduct toward Miss Layne he could not admire. 
She was so unnecessarily haughty, so frigid. And in- 
sisted so upon this being her first experience of “work.’* 

“Of course you're used to it,” she would say, whenever 
she had made a glaring mistake, “but Fve never been out- 
side my own home before.” 

She liked to bring her lunch with her, sandwiches and 
so on which the hotel put up for her — as well as fruit 
and cake which she purloined from the dinner table — 
and she made a great ceremony of spreading out a little 
embroidered doily on the desk, on which to lay her food. 

“I do love to make things a little bit dainty and home- 
like,” she told Mr. Petersen. “You don’t mind, do you?” 

But the doily was soon very far from dainty. Mr. 
Petersen thought he would not care to eat anything that 
had lain on it. He felt sorrier than ever for the poor 
little woman when he saw her sitting before it, so daintily 
eating thick ham sandwiches, and adding new bits of 
butter and strings of fat to her homelike tablecloth. In 
the course of time, the rats ate it, lace and all, and she 
had nothing daintier than several sheets of his best type- 
writing paper, fresh every day, on which to lay out her 
repast. 

It began to dawn upon her before very long that she 
was not altogether indispensable; that Mr. Petersen and 
Miss Layne could manage the office very well without 
her. So she began entreating them to teach her, any- 
thing and everything. The books, especially. And, as 
she wrote a good enough hand, and apparently took great 
pains, Mr. Petersen allowed her to post certain items, 


i 82 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


providing she didn’t try to write in any of her own totals. 
She enjoyed doing this; she used to ask Mr. Petersen for 
‘‘the books” as early in the morning as possible, because 
she liked to see him open the safe and hand these precious 
volumes to her. 

But she was detected in an awful deed. He saw her, 
with his own eyes, carefully tearing out one of the num- 
bered pages. 

“Mrs. Naylor!” he cried. “What are you doing?” 

She looked up, blushing crimson. 

“I was going to copy it all again,” she explained piti- 
fully. “I hadn’t written it very nicely. I didn’t have 
a proper pen. And I did take such pride in having it all 
look nice!” 

The books went back to Miss Layne again, while Mr. 
Petersen invented tasks for Minnie. 

She took her work with the utmost seriousness. One 
day Mr. Petersen surprised her wiping away a surrepti- 
tious tear. 

“Now, then!” he said kindly, “What’s the matter?” 

She tried to answer cheerfully, but her voice failed. 

“Sandra doesn’t seem well,” she said, “I don’t know 
— her throat ” 

“But, my dear Mrs. Naylor, why didn’t you stay home? 
You mustn’t worry yourself like this!” 

“I didn’t want to neglect my work,” she said. 

And she meant it; she had, in Minnie-fashion, made 
herself believe that she was essential, that her absence 
would cause trouble. She had to believe this; her vanity 
Would have suffered too cruelly otherwise. 

Mr. Petersen assured her and reassured her, almost 
begged her to go home, even appealed to Miss Layne, 
who answered, in what a tone, that she thought she 
could manage alone. 

So Minnie put on her poor little coat and hat and 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 183 

hurried off to Mr. Petersen’s house. She had never been 
in it before. Mrs. Hansen, the housekeeper, observed 
her coming up the front steps with deep misgivings. She 
knew her well by sight; had often seen her in the old 
days, driving by with her sister, and even then had been 
inordinately irritated. . . . The idea of Mr. Petersen, 
king of men, learned, just, endowed with every virtue, 
forever picking his choicest flowers and fruits for those 
“beggars,” as she called them! Living there all those 
years without paying him a penny, and then, if you 
please, walking off without so much as thank you! Un- 
grateful creatures, owing everyone, and turning up their 
noses at honest people ten times better than themselves. 
And this one was the worst of the lot. 

However, with a manner absolutely correct, Mrs. 
Hansen opened the door, and even smiled. 

“I am Mrs. Naylor,” said Minnie, pleasantly. 

“I know who you are, and all about you !” thought Mrs. 
Hansen, though aloud she said, “Yes, ma’am.” Al- 
though her husband was a Socialist, and her revered 
Mr. Petersen as well, Mrs. Hansen had no patience with 
such ideas. She knew herself to be a housekeeper, and 
as a housekeeper, socially obliged to call this widow 
“ma’am.” 

“I came for my little girl,” Minnie went on. “I felt 
worried about her this morning. She didn’t seem well.” 

Mrs. Hansen had her private opinion about the cause 
of the child’s listlessness, which she had confided to her 
husband, but not, of course, to Mr. Petersen, whom she 
looked upon as already lost. 

“The child’s up till all hours of the night,” she said 
to Hansen, “and eats all sorts of trash. What could you 
expect?” 

“I think she’s better now,” she said to Minnie, “she’s 
taken two glasses of milk.” 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


184 

‘'You do take such wonderful care of her/' Minnie 
returned; “she tells me at night of so many things you’ve 
done for her.” 

“She’s a lovely, good child,” Mrs. Hansen answered, 
quite unmoved by the flattery. 

She led Minnie through a narrow red-carpeted passage 
into her kitchen, pride and joy of her life, filled with 
sun and sweet air, utterly clean, gleaming and neat. From 
the window she pointed out the quiet baby, sitting on the 
back steps, leaning her head against a post, languid, 
thoughtful, quite contented. Beside her sat an immense 
cat. 

“Why!” cried Minnie. “That — can it possibly be 

Michael?” 

“Yes, ma’am, it’s your cat. Mr. Petersen took it after 
your sister left.” 

Minnie looked down with tears in her eyes at her 
long-lost darling, sleek and fat still, but old ; his buccaneer 
swagger gone, his insolent eyes dim. She touched his 
head, with the furry skin so tightly drawn over the round 
little skull; but he never stirred. He didn’t know her, 
didn’t care for her. 

Then she took Sandra by the hand and led her off, 
out of the fresh air and the quiet garden, back to the 
hotel, where she got her into bed in their hot little room 
and read to her, hovered over her, flooded her with 
sympathy. 

“You just needed Mother, didn’t you, baby?” she said. 
“Mother knows what her little girl wants!” 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


I 

After a decorous interval, Mr. Petersen began dis- 
creetly to woo. He had considered the matter very thor- 
oughly, and he was sure that his happiness lay in marry- 
ing Minnie. He did not deceive himself, he realised that 
she had faults, but they were faults he didn’t mind, lov- 
able feminine faults. And her virtues were sublime. He 
knew that she would make his home an earthly paradise, 
with her contented, thoroughly domestic disposition and 
her good-temper. It never occurred to him that the lack 
of accuracy and method she had shown in the office might 
be k'ansported to this other realm; he felt sure she would 
be a marvellous housekeeper. He considered her prac- 
tical, perhaps because she confined her attention solely 
to petty things, never bothered with the ideal, the 
theoretical. . . . 

He also admired her dowdiness, thought it showed 
that she made no unworthy effort to attract his sex. He 
didn’t know that Minnie was far beyond that, that she 
had weapons infinitely more deadly. She didn’t need to 
look charming; she was instinct with an allurement ir- 
resistible and fatal. She was all woman, nothing but 
woman. She had no ambition; her mission was simply 
to exist. Her power lay in the fact that no man would 
ever be able to understand her. 

Mr. Petersen knew that she wouldn’t be the comrade 
and equal he had longed for in his younger days; she 
would never comprehend his ideas and theories, he was 
sure. She would never become a Socialist — although she 
185 


i86 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


might become a parrot — or know what a Socialist was. 
She would remain unalterably Minnie. And that was 
what he wanted now. 

Not even the shyest man could have dreaded proposing 
to Minnie. She was certain not to laugh or to be 
capricious. One might have said that her nature pre- 
supposed proposals. What is more, he felt sure that 
she knew his intention, and he had seen no hint of dis- 
couragement in her manner toward him. That counted 
for much with Mr. Petersen, the proud, who couldn’t 
bear to be laughed at. 

It came about easily and naturally, in the office one 
Saturday afternoon; of course when they were alone. 
So easily and naturally that one might have imagined — 

Minnie said something about the future, how black it 
looked for a lonely woman with a dependent child. 

'T can’t go on like this,” she said, ^‘and be separated 
from Sandra most of the time. You’re awfully good 
and kind — I’ll never forget it — but of course I can’t stay 
here forever. I know I’m not very useful to you. You 
could find plenty of others who would do as well, or 
better.” 

He was silent, a portentous sort of silence, marshalling 
his forces, bringing his somewhat slow mind to bear on 
this subject. 

‘‘Do you think I could get a place as a housekeeper?” 
she asked earnestly, “where I could have Sandra with 
me ?” 

A broad smile overspread his face. 

“I think so,” he said. 

“Oh! Do you know of anyone?” 

“Yes, if it will suit you.” 

“Please tell me!” 

Never in life had he so enjoyed a joke. 

“It’s a nice place,” he went on slowly, “in this town.” 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW^ 187 

‘‘With a good salary, do you think?’’ 

“Well, yes, over ten thousand a year, I should say.” 

“Oh, you’re joking, Mr. Petersen,” she cried, in such 
a disappointed voice that he stopped smiling and took 
her warm little hand. 

“Minnie!” he said. “It’s I ... I want you. I’ll do 
everything I can to make you happy and your child too. 
I’ve got on well; you’ll be comfortable. If you — if you 
would care to marry me?” 

For one instant a terrible look crossed her face — a sort 
of horror. She grew so white that he thought she would 
faint. 

“You’re so kind she faltered. 

“You mean you will?” 

“I’ll have to think,” she answered. That was the an- 
swer he liked, modest, and prudent. 

II 

She altered strangely after that talk. Before his eyes 
she grew thinner and paler, looked really ill. A shadow 
lay over her, a trouble she could scarcely support. It 
distressed the good man very much in more ways than 
one, for he imagined she was struggling against her 
loyalty to her dead husband, and he was not only sorry 
for her, but jealous as well. She avoided him noticeably, 
and he was too proud and too kind to trouble her. In 
the office she was formal, almost hostile. All this hurt 
him and puzzled him; it was not until long, long after 
that he realised what a terrible thing was taking place 
in her queer little soul. 

She didn’t want her child out of her sight. In the 
evening, when he came now and then to see her, she 
would sit with the little creature on her lap, pressed 
against her heart, sleepy and patient. 


i88 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


He began to fancy that he was in some way offensive 
to her, and little by little tried to resume his old manner, 
to be kind but quite impersonal. A faint resentment 
aided him ; he called her Mrs. Naylor, and ceased to call 
on her at the hotel. 

And, directly he began to draw back, she advanced. 
He permitted it. He wouldn’t see her hints; he waited 
until she actually asked him to call. She had tried to 
dress up a little, with a lace collar on her rusty old black 
blouse, and she had left Sandra upstairs, with a bag of 
candy and some new paper dolls. She was waiting in 
the Ladies’ Sitting Room, with the naked light illuming 
her sallow, anxious face; not pretty, not very young, not 
fresh, and in a decidedly disadvantageous situation. But 
fully able to cope with it. 

“Mr. Petersen,” she said, very, very gravely, “some 
time ago you made me an offer. I have reason to believe 
that you regret it now. I want to tell you that you are 
quite free.” 

“I don’t regret it. If it were of any use, I should be 
only too glad to repeat it.” 

“You’d better not,” she said. 

He enquired why. 

“Because,” she said, with her charming smile, “I should 
accept it.” 

Thus were they betrothed. 

And now she was still more surprising. She wanted 
to be married without delay. 

“We don’t want any fuss or bother,” she said. “There 
aren’t any preparations to make.” 

“It can’t be too soon for me,” he said. 

“Why not next week ?” she suggested. 

He professed himself delighted. 

“And — Chris ” she added, with a blush, “I’d like 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 189 

ever so much to get a new dress for Sandra and a few 
little things 

He gave her a cheque for five hundred dollars, which 
he thought would be ample. So that he was surprised, 
on the wedding day, to find her wearing a grey suit he 
was sure he had seen on her before. She was waiting 
in the ‘‘Ladies’ Sitting Room,” with little Sandra beside 
her, dressed in a lace frock trimmed with ribbon and a 
flopping beflowered hat which almost hid her grave little 
face. He complimented Minnie upon her appearance, al- 
though he was deeply disappointed, and then began to 
praise Sandra, when Minnie burst into tears. 

“Oh, my poor, poor baby!” she sobbed. “My poor 

innocent little lamb ! She doesn’t realise one bit Oh, 

you will be nice to her, won’t you?” 

“Come, come! You know I will. She loves me al- 
ready, don’t you, pet?” 

To his chagrin and surprise, the child answered 
clearly : 

“I don’t love you. I like you. I only love my daddy.” 

He knew quite well that she had been taught to say 
that. It wasn’t a child’s thought. He turned redder than 
ever, but held his peace. 

“I’m doing wrong!” cried Minnie. “You see!” 

“But surely . . . Little Sandra, you like old Uncle 
Chris a lot, don’t you?” 

Sandra looked at her weeping mother, then at Mr. 
Petersen’s distressed face, and herself began to cry. 
Minnie caught her in her arms and tried to comfort her. 

“Don’t cry, dear. Mother wouldn’t let anyone hurt 
you.” 

“Minnie!” he protested. 

“Oh, do stop!” she cried. “You don’t know anything 
about children. Don’t cry, sweetheart! You’re going 


190 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

to live right in the house with dear old Michael! Isn’t 
that nice!” 

Mr. Petersen suspected at this time and at future times, 
that Minnie didn’t do all she might to make the child 
fond of him. In the course of time she dried her eyes, 
her mother, red-eyed and pale, straightened her hat, and 
the festive wedding party set off for the church. 

It was evidently a terrible ordeal for Minnie. And 
for poor Mr. Petersen. He looked at her haggard and 
tormented face, and suffered from many new doubts. 
Was she marrying him for money, for a home for her 
child, for safety? 

'‘She doesn’t love me,” he said to himself, and added, 
with deeper unhappiness, "She doesn’t even like me.” 

They went out, man and wife, back to Mr. Petersen’s 
house, where Mrs. Hansen waited to salute them. She 
knew her days there were numbered, but the occasion 
called for a smile and a cheerful demeanour, and sh^ 
complied. 

Ill 

"Shall we put it in the papers?” asked Mr. Petersen. 

"No!” cried Minnie, "I hate that!” 

They were at supper, their first meal together. And 
how different from what he had imagined! There was 
still daylight in the room, even a last gleam of sun strik- 
ing across the table. It looked so charming and so peace- 
ful that Mr. Petersen couldn’t help expecting some com- 
ment. Surely she would notice his linen and the fine old 
silver? Or at least Mrs. Hansen’s cooking? How could 
she not be delighted at finding such a home for herself 
and her child? He had proudly led her from room to 
room, each one so exquisitely clean and neat, furnished 
so well and substantially, and she hadn’t made a single 
remark about the comfort or the beauty of any of them. 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 19 1 

Just followed him and asked, idiotically, ‘‘And this is 
the sitting-room?” and so on. He was too even-tem- 
pered and too fond of Minnie to be angry, but he was 
deeply disappointed. Without showing it in any way. 

Quite in his usual way, he resumed : 

“Would you like to send out a few announcements? 
To your sister, perhaps?” 

She sprang to her feet to answer him. 

“No, no, no!” she cried, in an odd, hysterical voice. 
“What’s the matter with you? Can’t you let things be 
as they are ? Can’t you let me alone ? I hate that vulgar, 
nasty display. I won’t have it! I’ll deny it! I’ll deny 
it!” 

She stamped her foot and began to cry furiously, so 
that in the end he had to call in Mrs. Hansen, and be- 
tween them they did their best to soothe her, and persuade 
her to go directly to bed, where a tray was brought her, 
so that she could finish her supper in peace. They ar- 
ranged a good light, and found a cheerful book for her. 

Mr. Petersen lingered a minute after Mrs. Hansen 
had gone downstairs. He looked down at the worn and 
wretched Minnie. 

“My dear,” he said gently, “don’t worry, please^ — about 
anything. I don’t want you even to shake hands with 
me, if you don’t wish. I should be very glad if I could 
make you understand — that I am not that sort of man. 
I hope you will never have cause to regret ” 

“Chris,” she answered soberly, “I’m sorry, very sorry 
I’ve acted like this. But I’m overwrought, not myself. 
After all, it’s a terribly important step for a woman. 
Especially when there’s a child to be considered.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


'Well,” said Mr. Petersen to himself, "Pm not the 
first nor the last !” 

He was standing on the back porch, looking into the 
kitchen formerly Mrs. Hansen’s immaculate kingdom. 
How changed, how sadly altered now! As if a huge 
maddened bumblebee had been flying about in it, knock- 
ing down everything, making all sorts of stupid mis- 
chief. Dirty pots and pans on the stove, the sink, even, 
unaccountably, on the chairs. And extraordinary things, 
which interested him, on the floor, egg-shells, toys, a pair 
of gloves. 

Without the least trouble he could remember just how 
it had been nine or ten months ago, when Mrs. Hansen 
had ruled, when he had been a bachelor. Sighed, but 
not with bitterness. Order-loving and systematic as he 
was, he was not exasperated by the turmoil in his home, 
or by the dreadful meals. He had toward Minnie an 
absolutely boundless tenderness. For one thing, he could 
see that she always tried; her failure came not from lazi- 
ness but from — he hesitated even to think it — from lack 
of intelligence, from a sort of obstinate stupidity. 

Servants were hard to procure and Minnie never got 
on well with them. There were always scenes, in which 
Minnie was the perfect Defoe and the servant very impu- 
dent. She seemed to have an absolute talent for pro- 
voking impudence from the most unexpected sources. 
Furthermore, she would not pay good wages. She re- 
sented the very idea of a servant profiting by her work. 
It was one of her queer little parsimonies. So she was 
compelled to do most of the work of the house alone. 

192 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 193 

When she became quite submerged in the torrent of dis- 
order, she called upon Mrs. Hansen, but grudgingly and 
ungraciously. 

It was after six, and she hadn’t begun even to consider 
dinner. He went upstairs and found her sweeping the 
big bedroom with frantic haste. 

“Oh, Chris,” she said, with a worried frown, “I know 
Pm awfully late. But I had a terrible headache, and I 
had to lie down almost all afternoon.” 

He put his arm about her shoulders. 

“Oh, leave this!” he said. “You poor little soul! If 
you’re well enough to get dressed, we’ll go and have din- 
ner at the Eagle House.” 

“But, Chris, the house ! The kitchen !” 

“Nonsense! I’ll get Mrs. Hansen ” 

“No, not that odious woman!” 

“Someone else then. Come on, little Minnie! Put 
on your nice new dress ! I’ll find Sandra.” 

Finding Sandra was a recognised preliminary. Her 
mother never knew where she was. She roamed about 
the neighbourhood, dirty and beautiful, playing with 
whatever children she encountered, or, oftener, went quite 
alone on her expeditions. She was never hungry, and 
hadn’t the least regard for meal times. Sometimes it 
sufficed to call her, sometimes Petersen went making 
enquiries. 

He found her this time in the garden next door, talk- 
ing with the old lady who lived there. As soon as she 
saw his kindly face she rushed up to him and sprang into 
his arms with the warm and silent affection she had 
developed for him, and which so enraptured him. He 
smiled apologetically over her head at the old lady, and 
carried her off. She was five now, and tall for her age, 
thinner than ever, and lovelier. She had lost the soft^ 
ness of babyhood, her little face was pointed, her features 
clearer. Mr. Petersen looked upon her with an ad^ 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


194 

miration that was almost awe. His feeling for this child 
was more than he could express, more than he could 
comprehend; something beyond any paternal affection. 
Minnie loved her, with a violent and undiscriminating 
passion, but he was privately convinced that Minnie 
didn’t quite understand her, or quite appreciate her rare- 
ness. She would, he fancied, have loved any child she 
had borne with the same fervour. 

‘Well, Sandra!” he said, “are you hungry?” 

“No, Uncle Chris.” 

So she always answered, and it always worried him. 
He had been disturbed to learn from Minnie that the 
child never drank milk, didn’t like it. He found a very 
particular sort of cow out in the country and arranged 
with its owner to deliver daily a quart of its milk, and, 
with bribes and cajolery, got her to drink it. 

“How much milk to-day?” he asked, as he did every 
evening. 

“None. Because Michael tipped over the bottle just 
when Mother opened it, and he drank it all up, from the 
floor, like this.” 

She illustrated with a small tongue. 

“Now then, that will never do ! We shall have Michael 
growing bigger than you !” 

That amused her, and together they constructed 
imaginary scenes with an enormous Michael. 

“We’re going out to dinner to-night,” he said. “Uncle 
Chris will make you pretty, eh?” 

So he carefully washed the little face, and combed her 
hair, talking to her all the while. 

“What did the little girl do to-day?” he asked. 

“I writed a letter to my daddy. I writes to my daddy 
every day.” 

He felt a great pity for her, and a generous pity for 
the man who had had to leave her forever. She often 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 195 

spoke about her father, and in honour bound, Mr. Peter- 
sen encouraged it, although it wasn’t altogether pleasant 
for him. He didn’t like to be reminded of the d^d 
Englishman whom he had supplanted. 

'That’s right,” he said. "Remember your daddy.” 

The little girl was sitting on his knee while he but- 
toned her frock; she rubbed her silky head against his 
face and rested for a moment against him. He could 
hear Minnie in the next room, opening bureau drawers 
in a vain search for some of her perpetually lost belong- 
ings. 

"Mother wroted too, to daddy,” Sandra went on, "and 
I did post it in the high box.” 

He wondered casually whom Minnie had been writing 
to, then in an instant forgot all about ^ it, for he heard 
her calling him in a queer, desperate voice : 

"Chris! Chris!” 

He hurried in to her. She had apparently begun to 
dress and then stopped ; she was standing, leaning against 
the bureau, in a petticoat and a cheap little flannel dressing 
sack, her hair down. 

"Chris!” she cried again. 

"What’s the matter? Are you ill? Shall I send for 
the doctor? Speak! What’s the matter?” 

"I know I’m going to die!” she whispered. 

He was appalled. 

"Die ! Minnie, my dear, what is it !” 

She collapsed in his arms ; not in a faint, simply gave 
way, in a sort of dreadful limpness. He carried her to 
the bed and covered her up with a blanket, and stood 
looking down at her in helpless alarm. 

"Shall I telephone the doctor?” he asked. 

She nodded feebly, and he ran downstairs to do so. 
Then sat down by the bedside to wait. He would very 
much have liked to tidy the room a bit before the doctor 
came, but Minnie had clutched his hand tightly, lying 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


196 

with closed eyes and rigid face. He felt himself dis- 
gustingly petty to be troubled by details, by corsets on 
the bureau, an underskirt dangling on the gas bracket, 
a window curtain secured only by a pin. . . . Nothing 
better should be expected from a woman in her condition. 
And what did it matter ? He tried to concentrate his at- 
tention on Minnie, but unhappily his eye fell upon a sort 
of waste tract under the bed, where in a tangle lay fluffy 
bits of hair, mouse-like rolls of dust, tom letters, stock- 
ings, toys of Sandra’s. 

The doctor came and Petersen went downstairs to 
Sandra. 

“Mother’s not well to-night,” he told her. “We’ll see 
if Uncle Chris can’t fix up some supper for his little 

girl.” 

Resolutely denying the emotions that were assailing 
him, disgust, impatience and despair, he went into the 
awful kitchen. 

“It can’t go on this way,” he said, half-aloud. “Ill or 
not, she could surely . . . We’d better give up house- 
keeping if she can’t find a servant. We’d better board.” 

And the emotions suddenly mastered him. 

“This is filthy!” he cried. “This is horrible! You’d 
lose your soul in a mess like this ! There isn’t, there can’t 
be any excuse for such a state of things!” 

He came out of the awfui kitchen, banging the door, 
and, in a whisper, telephoned for Mrs. Hansen. 

Presently the doctor came down. 

“She’s in a very nervous state,” he said, “but there’s 
nothing physically wrong, as far as I can see. Morbid. 
Thinks she can’t live through it. That she’s going to die. 
Not unusual in her condition. If I were you, I’d see 
she didn’t over-exert herself. Persuade her to rest more. 
Get a good servant, Mr. Petersen; you can afford it. Try 
to interest the little lady in sewing, books, that sort of 
thing.” 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 197 

Mr. Petersen went upstairs again, to find Minnie in 
tears. He told her what the doctor had said. 

‘‘But I don’t want a servant!” she cried. “No, Chris! 
I’d far rather have the extra money.” 

“I’ll give you the extra money beside,” he assured her, 
in surprise. “You know, my dear, you only need men- 
tion ” 

It wasn’t the first time he had reflected on the subject 
of Minnie and income. He allowed her considerably 
more for housekeeping than Mrs. Hansen had had, and 
yet she couldn’t manage. They had cheaper food, and 
not too much of it. She bought no clothes for herself, 
and only what was essential for Sandra. The entire tone 
of his life was lowered; broken articles were always re- 
placed by something cheaper. It had more than once oc- 
curred to him that Minnie must be saving, laying up a 
little hoard on her own account, and it rather hurt him. 
She knew he had left her everything in his will, and he 
felt that she might certainly trust him while he was liv- 
ing. He was very generous with her, and never asked 
a question, once he had given her any money; but he 
hated waste and extravagance, and he had no intention 
of giving her too free a rein. His former idea of a 
wife who should be a comrade, to share equally in all he 
had, to be consulted and apprised of everything, had 
gone. Minnie was not a comrade, whatever else she was. 
Business could never be discussed with her. He couldn’t 
even say, “We’ll spend so much of our profits,” or tell 
her what proportion he wished to save or to reinvest. He 
simply had to tell her, “I can afford so much and so 
much,” and she would take it without comment. Her 
share of his money, as a woman, was all that she could 
get hold of ; she didn’t consider it a right or a privilege, 
but an opportunity. 

He didn’t resent that attitude; he was strong enough 
and large-minded enough to admit the exorbitant claims 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


198 

of the weak. The only thing he did resent a little was 
her secretiveness. Her ruling instinct was to hide every- 
thing, to conceal her true thoughts, to distort her actions. 
She didn’t like even to tell him what she had eaten for 
lunch. Her age remained forever dubious. She had 
curious reticences about different phases of her childhood. 
Her little prevarications he didn’t so much mind; was 
rather amused by them. If she wanted to hurry him she 
ingenuously told him the time a half hour in advance of 
the truth. She gave him milk with his coffee and de- 
clared that it was cream. She told him things cost twice 
as much as they did, so that she could pocket the dif- 
ference. And he, with a fatuousness by no means rare 
in this world, felt that there was no harm in these naive 
little deceptions, was sure that in anything important 
she was quite to be trusted. If only she had talked more, 
confided in him more fully, he would have been entirely 
satisfied. Suspiciousness was utterly foreign to his 
kindly heart. 

Although doubts were beginning to trouble him. . . . 
This “attack,” for instance. He could not stifle a feeb 
ing that she had some object to gain by it. He wanted, 
of course, to be sympathetic, but it was not easy. After 
Mrs. Hansen had come, calm^ polite but outraged, and 
had bathed and fed Sandra and got her tO' sleep, he went 
upstairs to sit with Minnie and found her lying flat on 
her back, her black eyes wide and troubled. 

She turned to him sombrely. 

“Chris,” she said, “suppose I were to die?” 

“I won’t suppose it,” he answered. “You mustn’t al- 
low yourself to be morbid.” 

“I’m not. Only there’s always a risk. And I can’t 
help thinking of Sandra. She hasn’t anyone but 


“Don’t you trust me, Minnie? Don’t you know how 
fond I am of the child?” 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 199 

‘‘I know/’ she said, with a frown. ^‘But Pve seen so 
much of that sort of love. ... You might die your- 
self.” 

"‘Pve provided for that, as you know.” 

‘Ur, — I might as well be frank, Chris. When this 
other child comes, you’ll feel very differently toward 
Sandra. You’ll lose interest in her.” 

He was seriously annoyed. 

“You ought to know me better ” 

“I’m not blaming you. But a child of your own — it’s 
altogether another thing. Oh, you’ll see!” 

Slow tears were running down her face. 

“How can I help worrying? My poor little girl!” 

“What would you like me to do?” he asked kindly. “I 
tell you I’ve provided for her in any event.” 

“I suppose there’s nothing to be done,'' she answered. 
She turned her face to the wall and lay perfectly still. 
He waited until he believed her to be asleep and then 
went softly out. But he was amazed and horrified when, 
from the darkness of the hall, he saw her sit up in bed 
and fling her hands above her head, and whisper, with a 
ferocious distinctness he could not misunderstand: 

“Oh, I hate your baby ! I hate it ! I hate it ! I hope 
and pray it will die before it comes to rob my little girl I 
I hate your baby !” 

He crept downstairs and into his study. 

“It’s her condition,” he told himself. “She’s not nor- 
mal, hardly sane. . . . She didn’t realise. ...” 

But his joy and pride in the child they were expecting 
had quite gone. Her distorted passion had tainted his 
healthy common-sense. A hated, unwanted child! In 
spite of himself, he began to see it as a monster, began 
to dread it. . . . 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 


I 

It took a countless number of small details finally to 
arouse distrust in Mr. Petersen. 

In the beginning, there was the roast chicken. Mrs. 
Hansen, who once more ruled the kitchen, came to him 
in great distress. 

“Mr. Petersen!” she cried, “It’s gone! The whole 
thing! A beautiful whole roast chicken I put into the 
ice chest with my own hands this very morning.” 

“Tramps,” he suggested, “or Michael. Don’t worry. 
Go and buy another.” 

And that marked the beginning. After that she 
missed something almost every day, and it nearly made 
her insane. She never talked of anything else; to Mr. 
Petersen, to Mrs. Petersen, to her own husband, or even 
to Sandra. 

“It isn’t tramps,” she insisted. “There I’ve never 
stirred out of my kitchen the whole morning, and that 
loaf of bread’s gone!” 

She could not make anyone realise the magnitude of 
it, the hair-raising mystery. Minnie took the attitude 
that Mrs. Hansen must be and was mistaken; Mr. Peter- 
sen suspected Michael. The poor woman was desperate. 

“All the years I’ve been here !” she moaned, “and never 
a bit of trouble like this!” 

She was not superstitious, but the mystery began to 
terrify her; bread, meat, fruit, all sorts of things, van- 
ished utterly, and with regularity. She considered Minnie 
grossly careless to take so little interest; the more she 


200 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 201 


saw of her, the more she despised her, anyway. On her 
return, Minnie had turned everything over to her, never 
so much as ordered a meal. She offended further by 
always sitting upstairs, just rocking or embroidering 
there in the bedroom, in a bedraggled wrapper, with her 
hair in an untidy knot, until late in the afternoon, when 
she made a supreme effort, dressed herself and went out 
for a walk. 

Her appearance shocked Mrs. Hansen immeasurably, 
her brazen disregard for her ‘‘condition,’’ her unsuitable 
clothes. Her treatment of Sandra, too. Such unwisdom 
she had never seen. The child was ailing half the time 
with colds and coughs ; she was forever getting her poor 
little feet wet, and going about for hours in that way; 
she ate nothing, she moped, she was badly dressed, her 
hair was never taken care of, but fell over her face in a 
silky tangle, she didn’t get nearly enough sleep. Mrs. 
Hansen did what she could for her, incurring Minnie’s re- 
lentless hatred. 

“I can’t see how you stood that odious, interfering 
woman so long,” she said to Petersen. “As soon as I’m 
well, she’ll go, I can promise you!” 

He tried to defend Mrs. Hansen, but with no success. 
And she, on her part, made as many veiled insinuations 
against her mistress as she dared. Mr. Petersen was not 
comfortable. 

One evening he was sitting reading in his library while 
Minnie lay on the sofa with closed eyes and little Sandra 
was playing at his feet, talking in a low voice fo her 
dolls. It was after nine; Mrs. Hansen had long ago 
cleared up and gone home to the new cottage — one of 
Mr. Petersen’s — which her husband had bought upon 
Minnie’s arrival. The house was quiet; there was for 
the moment a little peace, and Mr. Petersen was enjoy- 


202 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


ing it. Then came a rap at the back door. He was sur- 
prised to see Hansen. 

‘‘Could I have maybe one, two minutes ?” he asked sol- 
emnly. 

“Of course!” said Mr. Petersen. “Come in! We’ll 
sit down in the kitchen, not to disturb Mrs. Petersen. 
Now! What’s wrong?” 

Hansen took a chair in a manner combining Socialistic 
equality with the politeness due to a much richer man. 

“It’s this way,” he said, “my wife she is badly upset 
about this business.” 

“What business ?” Mr. Petersen enquired with a sink- 
ing heart, surmising another miserable disturbance be- 
tween the two women, an unusually bad one if their men 
had to be dragged into it. 

“Losing all these things. She thinks maybe you begin 
to suspect her.” 

Mr. Petersen’s face flushed. 

“Nonsense, Hansen!” 

“Nonsense all right,” said Hansen, with slow obsti- 
nacy. “But that’s what she thinks. First one thing, then 
another is every day going.” 

His English grew more and more halting, but he 
wouldn’t for worlds have used his and Mr. Petersen’s 
native tongue. They must under all circumstances pre- 
serve the illusion of being Americans. 

“For ten, twelve years you know us now, Mr. Peter- 
sen,” he went on. “All the same, this is a queer business 
and my old woman she doesn’t like it. She thinks maybe 
very soon you begin to suspect her.” 

“But I tell you I’d never suspect her,” Mr. Petersen 
insisted. 

“The Missis could.” 

“Nonsense !” he said again, but he made no impression 
upon the stolid Swede — nor upon himself. 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 203 

‘‘Anyway, Mr. Petersen, I want to pay you any time 
you are thinking my wife is taking something. Any 
time you would think she got a chicken or what, you just 
tell me, Mr. Petersen, and I pay you.’' 

“But I tell you I’d never think so.”" 

“Maybe sometime you could, Mr. Petersen.” 

Mr. Petersen understood what he meant. 

“Here you are with a new wife, and what she thinks 
you’re going to think before long,” was what Hansen’s 
tone implied, and he resented the implication. They 
talked a long time about it ; neither gave an inch. Han- 
sen’s parting words were: 

“Remember, I pay you any time, Mr. Petersen!” 

And Mr. Petersen’s: 

“Nonsense I” 

Nevertheless, he felt obliged now to consider this thing 
seriously. He sat alone in the kitchen and reflected until 
bed time, but couldn’t reach any sort of conclusion. Mrs. 
Hansen was absolutely above suspicion, unless she had 
suddenly gone mad, and that he couldn’t accept. Sandra 
never wanted food, and anyway, she would have been 
discovered. Michael had no opportunities, tramps 
couldn’t remain invisible, stray dogs wouldn’t rifle the 
apple barrel, wouldn’t and couldn’t be so nicely dis- 
criminating. His mind dwelt upon Minnie, he remem- 
bered things he had read or heard about morbid cravings 
for certain things to eat, about temporary mental de- 
rangements. . . . But that idea filled him with such 
alarm and uneasiness that he refused to consider it. He 
evolved a diabolic dog, actually invented excuses for 
it. . . . 

II 

The very next day he found out, quite by accident. He 
was going to lunch at the Eagle House with a rather im- 


204 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


portant client and he hurried home to put on a clean col- 
lar and his cherished white flannel trousers, worn only on 
semi-offlcial occasions. Minnie was taking a bath, so 
he didn’t even call out to ask her where his things were. 
She wouldn’t have known anyway. He was accustomed to 
searching patiently for every article when it was re- 
quired. 

He went through his own bureau drawers and his own 
closet in vain ; then he went to look in Minnie’s appalling 
wardrobe. 

On the shelf there, lying on a piece of newspaper, be- 
hind her best hat, lay half a cold leg of lamb. 

A corpse could scarcely have terrified him more. In 
a panic he seized his cap and rushed out of the house 
as he was; and Minnie never knew he had been home 
at all. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


I 

It may be said with perfect truth that Mr. Petersen 
was haunted by the leg of lamb; it gave him sleepless 
nights. He couldn’t imagine why it was there. He 
would stop in the middle of serious work in his office, 
and contemplate the mystery. Could it be connected with 
her peculiar efforts at economy? Or a plot against Mrs. 
Hansen? Or absolute madness? 

It was significant — more so than he realised — that he 
didn’t dare to ask Minnie about it. At the bottom of his 
heart, in spite of his affection and admiration for her, 
he was perfectly aware that Minnie was a woman capable 
of anything and everything. There was nothing she 
wouldn’t do. He went about for days, with the leg of 
lamb on his conscience, miserably imagining that he had 
in some way wronged Minnie by finding it. 

The losses continued. But he never looked in the closet 
again. Imagination balked at the prospect. When Mrs. 
Hansen reported a dish of apple sauce and three pork 
chops missing, a dreadful vision of them behind Minnie’s 
hat flashed across his brain. He tried his best to mollify 
Mrs. Hansen, to assure her that he knew she had no 
hand in the business. He felt intolerably guilty before 
that honest woman. He was a changed man, and he 
knew it. He had fallen into a sort of daze of astonish- 
ment, like a man who has undeniably seen a ghost. 

An impossible situation, and ended by a still more in- 
credible revelation. Quite by accident he learned where 
the leg of lamb and all its associates had gone. 

205 


206 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


Minnie’s health was causing him a great deal of 
anxiety. She was in a perpetual state of exhaustion and 
worry, and refused to be relieved. It was one of her 
most sacred principles that it was not only meritorious 
but absolutely a duty for a domestic house-loving woman 
to tire herself out every day. In addition to doing a 
great many tasks which Mrs. Hansen had plenty of time 
and ability to do, she would take a walk every afternoon, 
even if it rained. The doctor said it was too much for 
her, advised her resting more, but although she listened 
to him sweetly, she said afterward to Mr. Petersen that 
she knew what was good for herself better than all the 
doctors on earth. She wouldn’t even take Sandra with 
her on these walks ; she said she had to be alone, for her 
nerves. Mr. Petersen warned her of rough characters 
from the brick yards and solemnly cautioned her to guard 
against being frightened; certain roads she was never to 
take, and she said she wouldn’t. 

So that he was alarmed and annoyed one day to see 
her crossing the railway tracks and starting off down 
the very worst of all the forbidden ways. He had hap- 
pened to go over in that direction himself to see one of 
the comrades who wanted to build a house. At first he 
didn’t believe his eyes ; it couldn’t be Minnie, in the dusk 
of a raw October day, deliberately and unnecessarily 
walking through that wretched quarter of drunken Slavs. 
But it was surely her hat . . . ! He hurried after her. 
She was a long way in advance, and before he had 
caught her up she had turned off the main road where 
the wretched hovels were, and entered a little wood. 

It was quite dark there, under the trees, and very still ; 
there was a faintly marked path, which the workmen 
sometimes used as a short cut to the brickyards in sum- 
mer, but quite deserted at this time of the year. A mat 
of sodden leaves underfoot, and a damp reek of decay. 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 207 

He was really angry at her morbid folly; such a place 
might well be dangerous. But just as he was on the 
point of speaking to her, gently, so that she shouldn’t 
be startled, she rushed up to the dim form of a man who 
had materialised from the twilight. She kissed him sev- 
eral times. 

Mr. Petersen was near enough to hear every word, al- 
though he could not distinguish the man. It was Minnie’s 
voice which most astounded him — it was not her voice; 
it had tones he had never before heard, never imagined ; 
it was gay, tender, full of a beautiful bravery. 

“My darling boy !” she said, “I’ve only an instant. Is 
your cold clearing up at all ?” 

“How’s Sandra?” he asked curtly. His voice was 
hoarse and weak. 

“Splendid ! I’ve brought you a little something to eat, 
dear. You must do all you can to keep up your strength. 
For just a little while longer.” 

“Oh, my God! Minnie!” he groaned, “I wish I were 
dead! And you too. And Sandra. It’s too much for 


“Don’t, don’t, my dearest! Just a little while longer. 
I ought to go now, really. . . . But I can’t leave you like 
this. Say one word to comfort me, dear. Tell me you’ll 
be brave, just a little while longer.” 

“I am brave,” he answered grimly. “If I weren’t, I 
shouldn’t be here.” 

Once more she kissed him. 

“Good-bye, my dearest!” she said. “Keep up your 
courage! God bless you! I’ll see you to-morrow as 
usual. And eat that nice beef, won’t you? You need 
it so!” 

She turned away and retraced her steps, through the 
wood and through the settlement. She was hurrying and 


208 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


breathing painfully, and Mr. Petersen heard a gasping 
little sob now and then. 

He was afraid of startling her too much by speaking 
just then. He waited until she was slowly climbing the 
hill above the tracks before he came up with her. 

‘‘Minnie!” he said as gently as possible, ''Who was 

thatr 

She looked at him wildly; her eyes made him think of 
a terrified horse, and she quivered like one. 

“Chris!” she cried. “You didn’t !” And abruptly 

and mechanically began to scream, shriek after shriek. 

“Stop! Stop!” he implored, in dreadful anxiety. 
“Calm yourself! Never mind! Don’t tell me; only stop! 
Stop ! Please, Minnie !” 

She couldn’t now. There in the road, where the Slav 
colony could hear her and coming rushing to witness, she 
had a frightful hysterical attack. Mr. Petersen sent 
someone after one of the old station hacks, and got her 
home at last. He was dripping with perspiration and al- 
together in a bad state when the doctor came ; he was 
sure he had killed Minnie. 

She was not allowed to talk that night ; a trained nurse 
came and took charge of her, and kept Petersen out of 
the room. He didn’t go to bed at all ; he sat in his study, 
in dreadful anguish. 

In the morning the nurse came down and told him he 
might see his wife for a few minutes. He tried to com- 
pose himself ; he soaked his great yellow head in cold 
water until his hair lay sleek as a seal; he swallowed a 
glass of brandy, but nothing helped him. He so dreaded 
what he might hear. 

Minnie loved that man. No matter what she said, she 
couldn’t make him doubt that. Her words, above all, 
her voice . . . She must have been meeting that in- 
credible, that unimaginable lover for weeks, feeding him 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 20^ 

. . . He was not in the least angry at her. On the con- 
trary he felt very, very sorry for her. But he did not 
want to see her, or to hear what she was going to say. 
If it were only possible for her to be restored to health 
and then to vanish ! 

He couldn’t speak. He went over to her bedside and 
stood looking down at her. She was worn, pale, more 
troubled than ever. But she met his glance; she had not 
the look of a guilty woman. 

‘‘You’ll have to be told now,” she said. “I wanted to 
wait — ^but I suppose you wouldn’t consent ?” 

“You needn’t tell me anything ” he began. 

She closed her eyes wearily. 

“You’d never trust me . . . He’s my brother. We’ve 
never spoken of him . . . he’s caused us a great deal of 
sorrow — disgrace, poor fellow. Through drinking. 
Father wouldn’t let us see him, or mention him. And 
Grandma was just as harsh. Even Frankie turned 
against him ...” 

She paused a moment and feebly wiped the tears from 
her closed eyes. 

“But I’ve always seen so much good in him. I’ve al- 
ways been so fond of him, poor fellow! ... So much 
good — going to waste 1 ” 

“But, Minnie, if you’d only spoken to me ” 

“I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair to him. He’s 
very proud, in his way.” 

Mr. Petersen sat down beside her, and tried, in a long 
silence, to adjust himself to this. He was conscious of 
a great relief, a terrible burden being lifted from him. 
And a feeling of guilt in the presence of the poor little 
woman. How could he for an instant have suspected 
Minnie, respectable, conscientious, maternal Minnie, of 
having a lover! Filthy, vile, preposterous idea! 


210 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


*We’ll find a way to help your brother, my dear,’’ he 
said. 

She reached out a calloused and hot little hand and put 
it into his. 

“Chris,” she said, “what I want is to have him here. 
Under my eye. Where I can look after him. May I?” 

“Of course, my dear.” 

“But, Chris, I want you to understand it all. It’s such 
a difficult situation. For a man like him — brought up 
in the best schools in England ” 

“In England!” exclaimed Mr. Petersen. 

“Yes; Father liked the English schools best for boys. 
Alec’s lived in England for years,” she explained, a little 
impatient at the interruption. “He’s quite an English- 
man. But, listen carefully, Chris, please. It’s going to 
be very hard to get him here.” 

“Why? Can’t ?” 

“You see, I didn’t tell him I was married. He wouldn’t 
have taken anything from me if he hadn’t believed it 
was all mine. I told him I had a position ... It will 
be a great shock to him, and he’s far from well. If 
you’ll only promise to do just exactly as I tell you, please, 
Chris!” 

He was rather amused at her solemnity. 

“Whatever you think is necessary,” he said, indul- 
gently. 

“It is — ^very necessary. I’ve written a note, and I 
want you to take it to him in that same place in the 
wood this afternoon at five. And, Chris, don't talk to 
him, don’t tell him anything — any single thing — until he’s 
read it. Not anything. It’s very important for him to 
learn it all from me^ — from the note. Promise!” 

“Very well, my dear.” 

“You see, I know just how to manage him, so that he 
won’t be too much shocked. And you’d better take your 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 21 1 


pocket flashlight, or you’ll be giving the letter to the 
wrong person.” 

II 

Privately Mr. Petersen considered it a preposterous 
errand. He set off at half-past four with the note and 
made his way through the windy twilight to the wood. 
At first he couldn’t find the fellow ; at last he discovered 
him sitting on a fallen log a few feet from the path, sunk 
in apathy. 

‘‘Is your name Defoe?” he asked. 

The man jumped up. 

“What is it?” he asked. “Have you a message from 
her ?” 

Mr. Petersen handed him the note and the flashlight 
by which to read it, and with no little curiosity, tried to 
study his appearance in the little spot of light. But 
couldn’t; could see no more than a thin, long hand 
clutching the letter. It seemed a long one. 

Presently the flashlight was extinguished and the little 
wood was very dark, and still. Mr. Petersen respected 
the feelings of the sensitive brother for a long time, but 
he couldn’t wait there all night. 

“Shall we be getting along?” he said, pleasantly. 

Out of the dark came that hoarse and pitiful voice. 

“Who are you ?” it asked. 

“Petersen,” he answered. 

“The man — the man that Minnie ?” 

“Her husband; yes. Are you ready?” 

The man came abreast of him, and began walking by 
his side with weary and heavy steps. 

“Is she so very ill?” he asked. 

“No-00,” said Petersen. “Not very. Can’t look for 
perfect health, I suppose, in her condition.” 

“What condition?” 


212 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


'There’s a baby coming in a few weeks, you know.” 

He was surprised her brother hadn’t noticed; then re- 
flected that he had only seen her in the dark. 

'The doctor tells me there’s no cause for worry,” he 
went on. He was curiously anxious to reassure the fel- 
low; jie was moved by a great pity for him which he 
could not have explained. Simply that his voice, his 
manner, the very atmosphere about him, seemed tragic 
and terrible. 

They went on toward the house, Petersen talking 
cheerfully, neither exacting nor expecting replies from 
his companion. They entered the hall, and he turned, for 
the first time, to look at him. 

Like a madman, like a ghost, so deadly pale and 
haggard and ruined . . . He couldn’t bear to look at 
him. He turned away, but found the image still in his 
eyes, the tall, lean fellow with his fine-featured face, his 
great grey eyes, so sunken and luminous, his straggling 
beard, his ruffled hair, all his shabbiness and wretched- 
ness. 

He wanted to propose a bath and a shave before going 
in to Minnie; the poor devil wasn’t a fit object for her 
gaze. But he divined the morbid sensitiveness of the 
famished creature, and was afraid of hurting him. As 
he hesitated, little Sandra came in from the kitchen. 

He caught her violently in his arms. 

"Sandra!” he cried. ^‘Don't you know mef* 

She looked up into his face. 

"No,” she whimpered, frightened. "Put me down!” 

Ill 

His interview with Minnie was very brief, for the 
nurse sent him out without ceremony, and followed him 
downstairs. 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 213 

''Mr. Petersen,” she said, "Pm going to telephone for 
the doctor.” 

The two men looked at her in alarm. 

"Is she worse?” asked Mr. Petersen. 

"She’ll soon be better,” answered the nurse, with a 
smile. 

Mr. Petersen caught her arm as she was going. 

"You don’t mean — it’s beginning now?” he asked. "I 
thought — three weeks more at least ?” 

The nurse smiled again. 

"I shouldn’t be surprised !” she said. 

Mr. Petersen felt utterly frightened and helpless. He 
looked about in vain for comfort, saw only the very pro- 
fessional nurse, and Alec, more alarmed than himself. 

"Will it be — bad?” he asked the nurse, but she went 
hurrying upstairs again. He followed her, but wasn’t 
allowed to come into the room. 

"You’ll only make her nervous,” the nurse told him, 
severely. "You must be sensible now, Mr. Petersen, and 
not worry me. I’ve got my hands full!” 

So he went down again and met the doctor coming in. 
He, too, had the professional cheerfulness so difficult to 
endure. 

"Take a drink,” he advised, "and go out for a walk. 
We don’t need you^^ 

He went back into his study once more, and was sur- 
prised to see the brother still there. He had forgotten 
all about him. He poured out a drink for him, too, and 
sat down, very glad to have someone with him. He be- 
came fictitiously cheerful to hide his anguish. And 
every time he heard a footstep overhead, his heart 
bounded horribly. 

He poured out a second glass of brandy for each of 
them, and was sorry to see the misery on the face of the 
other, not to be dispelled by many drinks. He tried to 


214 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


console him, said, after all, it was a perfectly natural 
thing — a beautiful thing. But didn’t believe it himself. 
There wasn’t — there couldn’t be beauty in the bestial 
agony of a poor little woman. It was natural enough, 
natural as an owl crunching the bones of a rabbit . . . 

Suddenly there was a long, horrible groan from up- 
stairs. Mr. Petersen turned pale, and reached blindly for 
the brandy. 

“My God !” he muttered. “This is ” But was cut 

short by a frantic clutch at his arm. The brother stood 
swaying like a reed; suddenly collapsed and fell at his 
feet unconscious. 

IV 

He was fully occupied with this other sufferer for a 
long time. He did all the proper things, threw water 
over him, slapped his hands, forced brandy down his 
throat, until he revived. Then he fetched Mrs. Hansen 
and she made him drink hot soup and eat bread and but- 
ter. There wasn’t a sound upstairs. Resolutely Mr. 
Petersen kept his mind away from Minnie, and clung 
to Mrs. Hansen, followed her wherever she went. Her 
calmness, her ordinariness solaced, as well as the fact 
that she was a woman. He questioned her minutely about 
Alec and what she thought he needed, without listening 
to her replies. It was only her reassuring voice he 
needed. 

“There now !” she exclaimed. “Mr. Petersen, the doc- 
tor’s coming down.” 

“She’s dead!” he thought. 

But the doctor was smiling. 

“A fine boy!” he said. 

V 

Presently, as dawn was breaking, the nurse came run- 
ning downstairs to Mr. Petersen. 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 215 

‘‘You may go in for just a minuter she said. 

She was looking worn and jaded, and, for the first 
time, not immaculately neat. She was human now. 

Mr. Petersen took it upon himself to invite Alec to 
come with him. 

“It will do you good, my boy,’^ he said. 

So they entered the room together, together had their 
first glimpse of the newly-born little man. He was asleep, 
his red, wizened little face screwed up into a look of 
comical misery, his tiny dark-red claws stretched up. 
The nurse assured them that he was large and that he 
was healthy. 

Minnie was lying flat on her back, with a long braid 
of hair over each shoulder, framing a very pale and 
grave face. She was exhausted and ill, but proudly vic- 
torious, aware that she had accomplished a masterly 
thing. Thus had she replied to all doubts or questions 
whatever that might arise within Mr. Petersen. She 
was the mother of his son; she had estabfished a claim 
upon his heart and upon his conscience which he could 
never deny. He not only loved her, he reverenced her. 
A deep conviction, belonging to a somewhat old-fashioned 
brand of Socialism, of the “sacredness of motherhood,’^ 
lay in him. Minnie had heard a great deal of it from 
him. It made her more than ever conscious of what a 
remarkable and praiseworthy thing she had accomplished. 
She looked at the two men with a worn yet sublime 
smile. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


I 

The days that followed were the golden days of Mr. 
Petersen’s life, the happiest he was ever to have. 

Minnie was angelic. Her worry, her preoccupied air 
had gone; she was gentle, gay, affectionate. She didn’t 
get well very fast and had to stay in bed for some weeks, 
but that was no burden ; she liked it. With her tiny son 
beside her and little Sandra quietly playing nearby, she 
was contented and blissful for hour after hour. 

She developed a great fondness for being read aloud 
to; all evening and part of the afternoon one of the two 
men could be seen sitting by the bed with a book. Her 
taste was astoundingly catholic; as a matter of fact, she 
didn’t care in the least what was read, or pay much heed 
to it, so long as she could secure the uninterrupted com- 
panionship of one of her men. She only wanted to see 
them there, safe and happy. 

Mrs. Hansen managed the house and Sandra to per- 
fection. There wasn’t a bother or an annoyance from 
one day’s end to another. Except that Mr. Petersen felt 
a bit disturbed about the brother’s state of health. He 
had taken a great liking to the fellow, and he hated to 
see him so despondent. 

Theirs was a most curious companionship. He realised 
how curious some time later. Mr. Petersen had never 
before met a man of this class and type; he had been 
wont to despise them, to look upon them as hindrances 
to the Socialist scheme, and useless from any point of 
216 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 217 

view. Now he revised his ideas, in his open-minded 
fashion. Alec’s education he couldn’t admire; he really 
knew nothing at all, nor was he particularly intelligent. 
But his ideas were fine. They were not personal to him, 
they were nothing more than traditions, and yet Mr. 
Petersen was forced to admit that such traditions were 
quite as good, if not a great deal better, than anything 
which most men would have been able to work out 
originally. Principles of honour, of fidelity, of endur- 
ance. No matter that he didn’t live up to his principles 
very well; who did, anyway? Mr. Petersen himself was 
aware of many betrayals of his own faith. The thing 
was to aspire. 

What is more, he liked the personality of the fellow; 
his simplicity, his infinite gentleness with Sandra. Cer- 
tainly he would have liked to see him more cheerful, still, 
he could very well understand this depression in a man 
well over thirty who had failed to make a living for him- 
self. He proposed looking about for some opening for 
him, but Alec said, no thanks, he was going away in a 
day or so. He was reserved to the point of mysterious- 
ness. Mr. Petersen used to discuss him with Minnie and 
ask her advice. 

‘'You know him better than I do,” he said. “What 
do you think would suit him ?” 

Minnie, as always incapable of answering a question, 
would say: 

“But let’s keep him here, anyway, Chris. It’s the best 
place for him.” 

She had the greatest devotion for her brother, a de- 
votion which Mr. Petersen fancied was not quite appre- 
ciated. He was so formal with the affectionate little 
soul. If she succeeded in kissing him good-night or 
good-morning, he would turn scarlet and actually frown 
at her. He never returned a caress, never spoke a tender 


2i8 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


word to her. He seemed rather to avoid her. He was 
willing enough to read aloud, but if she interrupted him, 
and wanted to chat a bit, he lost his temper. 

‘‘Do you want me to read or notf he would ask, 
menacingly. 

Sombre and inscrutable, he withdrew into himself, dis- 
regarding even Mr. Petersen’s always renewed offers of 
friendship. He treated Mr. Petersen with a respectful 
deference which would have been grotesque if he had not 
been so obviously sincere. 

Sandra he loved passionately. It surprised Mr. Peter- 
sen to hear him upbraiding Minnie for her carelessness 
with the child. Her food, her clothes, her manners. He 
was always saying that she should be taken to church, 
and taught what he called “decent ideas,” and Minnie al- 
ways promised to comply when she grew stronger. She 
was invariably propitiating toward her brother, as toward 
someone she had wronged. . . . 

II 

The War broke out. With very little effect upon 
Brownsville Landing. “Let them fight it out,” was the 
prevailing opinion ; it was also stated positively that none 
of the nations had any clear idea of its aims or why it 
was involved. Even the Belgians were fools, who had 
rushed into war for no reason. There was a certain 
amount of awfully sentimental sympathy for the “Bel- 
gian babies,” but it wasn’t very effective. The Browns- 
ville Landing natives looked upon the whole affair as a 
colossal folly, in which all the participants were equally 
guilty; the British perhaps a bit more reprehensible than 
the others. The old families, brought up on flamboyant 
traditions of “1776,” looked upon the British with scorn 
and dislike, the Irish element with positive hatred, and 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 219 

the great mass of aliens, with their obscure and vague 
affiliations, swallowed docilely the German propaganda 
fed to them. There was a wide-spread conviction that 
the Germans were invincible, if not superhuman, with 
amazing scientific devices impossible to resist. A sort 
of laboratory witchcraft, “secrets” and “discoveries” 
without limit. France was degenerate and vitiated; Eng- 
land gross, slothful, devoid of patriotism, Russia a farce; 
the whole affair wouldn’t last long. 

To Mr. Petersen, the European, the outbreak was of 
immense significance; it was the falling of Damocles’ 
sword. He read the papers avidly. He was not partisan ; 
he felt nothing but the passionate interest of an onlooker 
observing a mortal struggle between equally unpleasant 
adversaries. A struggle among capitalists. With the 
poor man dying, bleeding, suffering, whether victor or 
conqueror. He shook his head over the fate of the 
Continent. 

It surprised him that Minnie’s feelings were so 
vehement. She was absolutely furious that there should 
be a war. All those men should have known better. She 
didn’t know or care what it was about; she declared it 
was shameful and wicked for so many people to be 
killed. She went so far as to weep over it. He knew 
Minnie well enough to guess at something personal in 
this fervour; an abstract interest was not possible for 
her. 

Sure enough, it was a personal matter. It concerned 
her adored brother. He had evidently been telling her 
that he wanted to enlist, for one morning Mr. Petersen 
heard them at it, taking it up again with incredible obsti- 
nacy and indirectness on both sides. 

“I won’t let you !” cried Minnie. “I won’t have it !” 

“Good God! What do you want to make of me? 
Can’t you see, even you, that it’s the only way to rehabili- 


220 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

tate myself? My only chance. I shan’t lose it, no 
fear!” 

“Don’t you dare!” she cried hysterically. “I’ll die! 
It would kill me !” 

Mr. Petersen entered after Alec had gone out angrily, 
banging the door. 

“Minnie, my dear,” he said, mildly, “don’t you think 
you’re wrong to try to influence your brother in such 
a ” 

“Oh, do stop!” she interrupted rudely. “You don’t 
understand.” And suddenly grew angry with him. “I 
should think you could see he’s not fit for a military life. 
So thin and sensitive. How can you be so heartless.” 

Mr. Petersen remarked that if he weren’t fit for a 
military life, he wouldn’t be accepted, but Minnie said she 
knew all about that; they’d take anyone they could get 
hold of, even in a dying condition. 

This marked the end of her period of sweetness. With 
her characteristic scorn for doctor’s orders, she refused 
to stay in bed any longer. In a wrapper, thinner, pallid, 
and untidy, she pervaded the house, for the sole purpose 
of keeping her eye on, Alec. She followed him about, 
scolding him, crying, tormenting him. He stopped argu- 
ing, he absolutely refused to answer her. He would sit, 
with a cigarette in his mouth, quite unmoved by her 
tirades. 

It was undoubtedly a unique opportunity for the poor 
fellow to “rehabilitate” himself, as he put it, and Mr. 
Petersen couldn’t understand why he hesitated. Surely 
no man owed so immoderate a duty to a sister. If he 
wanted to go, if he saw it as his duty to go, why in 
Heaven’s name, didn’t he go, and at once? 

All of poor Minnie’s loves were so inordinate. She 
was to Alec as she was to her children, utterly and blindly 
devoted, without the least discretion or scruple. He knew 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 221 

that she didn’t love him in that way, but he felt it was 
because he was independent, didn’t need her so. Her 
whole life consisted in service for those weaker ones. 
The most superfluous services, that instead of helping 
hindered. She annoyed Alec by her futile and insistent 
attentions, by counting his cigarettes and deploring their 
number, by bringing him special dishes which were in- 
tended to fatten him. She denied Sandra nothing, no 
matter how injurious and stupid. She served her little 
son by carrying him in her arms continually, never let 
him alone in peace. . Only to Mr. Petersen she did noth- 
ing but her duty, and not always that, though she didn’t 
realise it. 

The old disorder was re-established, on account of 
trouble with Mrs. Hansen. 

Minnie came into his little room one morning, frown- 
ing. 

‘"Chris,” she said. “You’ll have to tell that woman to 
go at once !” 

“Who, my dear?” 

“You know very well! That Hansen woman! This 
time she’s surpassed herself. I never heard of such 
impudence. Never! There she was, the old — creature 
— snooping round in Alec’s room. Snooping!” 

Now Mr. Petersen had long been , aware of this sole 
failing in ah otherwise classically lofty character. He 
knew that Mrs. Hansen snooped. But, having no secrets, 
her snooping hadn’t particularly disturbed him. He 
realised, too, that for one of Minnie’s secretive nature, 
snooping must seem a crime; he knew by this time that 
she had plenty of things to hide, queer little magpie 
stores, money she imagined she was saving, clothes she 
had ruined in the making, bills she didn’t wish seen. He 
thought it rather humorous. 


222 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


'That’s too bad,” he said, soothingly. "Still — perhaps 
if you speak to her ” 

"Indeed I shan’t. You engaged her and you can get 
rid of her. I will not have her in the house. Poking her 
nose into everyone’s affairs. She’s got to go at once!” 

She heard the baby crying and turned to go. 

"I never did trust that woman,” she said, turning back 
at the door. "I always felt there was something queer 
when we missed all that food last autumn.” 

Mr. Petersen was stricken dumb. To accuse poor 
Mrs. Hansen of that I 

And such was the plausibility, the fatal assurance of 
Minnie’s manner, that he was almost inclined to dis- 
believe the evidence of his own eyes, to deny the facts 
known to him, and to put his faith in her words . . . 

She got another servant, a silly young girl, and be- 
tween them they produced a masterpiece of discomfort 
and disorder. They quarrelled, too, in a distressing way ; 
but were nevertheless conscious of a sort of bond. Mr. 
Petersen would hear Minnie in the kitchen preparing 
food for the baby and talking to Addie with interest, with 
animation, as she had never talked to Mrs. Hansen, who 
was so much more worth talking to. And Addie would 
reply as one woman to another. They used to discuss 
the war sometimes with deep indignation. Their opinions 
were identical. Addie’s young man, who was a German 
with American citizenship, hankered after the Father- 
land, and wanted to go home and fight, but Addie had 
told him firmly that if he did, she was done with him. 
He could find one of those fat German girls. 

Minnie’s housekeeping annoyed her brother very much. 
In fact, Mr. Petersen thought him unnecessarily fault- 
finding with the anxious little woman. She used to cry 
sometimes but she never resented anything he said. She 
would excuse herself by saying that the baby took up 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 223 

so much of her time. And that was a new cause of 
offense. He accused her bitterly of favouritism, and 
even Mr. Petersen was obliged to admit a basis of truth 
in the accusation. She had an absolutely frantic passion 
for her little son; she was ready enough to be sharp and 
unjust to Sandra if she disturbed his inordinate demands 
for quiet slumber. 

It was a beautiful, a wonderful baby, a lusty, blonde 
little Petersen with serene blue eyes and a sort of debonair 
quality; a baby no woman could be blamed for adoring. 
But she was so immoderate, so inordinately proud of hav- 
ing a son anyway. And when, combined with its superior 
sex, it possessed the attractions of this son, how with- 
stand it? She expected Sandra to worship as she did, 
and Sandra refused. Sandra was annoyed with this 
superfluous child. As far as she was concerned it was 
useless, too young for a playmate and not docile enough 
for a toy. Moreover it received attentions which prop- 
erly belonged to her. Uncle Alec alone confined his de- 
votion to her. 

He didn’t want the little girl out of his sight. He 
spent many hours walking through the garden, holding 
her hand, listening to her, touching her misty hair. He 
couldn’t play with her or amuse her as Mr. Petersen did, 
but she was able to love him even more. They had be- 
tween them a rare and touching sympathy. 

Mr. Petersen thought it charming. He often watched 
the grave little girl, sitting on the sofa beside the 
wretched man, reading aloud to him from her funny 
little books, which she knew by heart, sometimes stopping 
to run her little hand over his cheeks, or his beard, 
which amused her. 

“Isn’t that a nice one?” she would ask, ending some 
stoiy about bears or wolves or fairies. 


224 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


“Rather!’’ he would answer. “You’re a very clever, 
good kid to read to me like that.” 

Ill 

Mr. Petersen came home one day at noon, and found 
no trace of lunch. Addie was not in the kitchen, nor 
Minnie. The latter he could always trace by means of 
his son’s voice, and he went up to the bedroom, to find 
her lying on the bed, exhausted, sobbing, while Addie 
bathed her forehead with cold water while she dandled 
the baby. 

“Well, well!” he asked. “What’s wrong now?” 

“He will enlist!” cried Minnie wildly. “You’ve got to 
stop him! I won’t have it. I’ll die!” 

“Pshaw !” said Mr. Petersen mildly. “This won’t do!” 

He was a little annoyed. 

“You must let a man do as he thinks right,” he said. 

“Right!” cried Minnie. “He’s not thinking of that! 

He wants to get away He’s made up his mind to get 

away from meT 

“Come, come! This isn’t very sensible, my dear!” 

“Neither are you!” she answered, unexpectedly. 
“You’re the biggest iool in the world, Christian Peter- 
sen!” And began to laugh. 

In the course of time she was calmed, and Mr. Peter- 
sen went downstairs to look for a bite to eat. He dis- 
covered Alec in the kitchen with Sandra, boiling eggs. 

“Minnie been at you?” he asked. 

Mr. Petersen admitted that she had. 

“She’ll have to get over it, that’s all,” said Alec. “I’m 
going ! About Sandra — I’ve got something ... a small 
income. ... It isn’t clear now; I’ve drawn against it 
for some time to come . . . but what there is, is for her. 
I . . . You’ll look out for her, won’t you, in case I ? 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 225 

She’s — Minnie doesn’t altogether understand her. Not 
so well as you do.” 

‘‘I’ll do my best,” said Mr. Petersen, who was too 
kindly even to hint that he didn’t need to be shown his 
duty toward Sandra by this poor failure. “You’ve really 
made up your mind then ?” 

“All the mind she’s left in me !” he answered with sud- 
den passion. “Good God ! What does the woman want ! 
She wants to own a man, body and soul. Wants me to 
hang about here a disgraced, ruined man, not even trying 
to — stand alone The most disgusting, despicable ob- 

ject under the sun — so that she won’t be separated from 
me. Good God! If I’d ever thought I’d come to this, 
Petersen ... I” 

“Now then, my boy,” said Mr. Petersen gently, “don’t 
blame your sister too harshly. She’s too much a woman 
to understand these things. And don’t be bitter. You’re 
a young man yet. You can ” 

“No !” said Alec, “It’s too late. You’ve only to look 
at me to see I’m done for. In every way. Physical as 
well as — moral. No good. Rotten all the way through. 
My only chance is to get into the army. If they won’t 
have me. I’m finished.” 

He was so obviously excited that Mr. Petersen did not 
remonstrate. 

“If I can help you,” he said, “with your outfit, for 
instance, let me know. I’d be very glad. Or ... if you 
need ready money ?” 

Alec looked at him sombrely. ' 

“Petersen,” he said, “some day you’ll understand. And 

I hope you’ll But I can’t expect it . . . Only, before 

I go. I’d like you to know that — I’m not so bad as I seem. 
— I — I realise ... I hope I’m going to be killed. Per- 
haps that’ll wipe out — this. You might — in that case — 
not judge me so — you might — have mercy ...” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 


I 

Mr. Petersen was thankful to escape from the house 
the next morning. After what a night! No sleep for 
anyone ; even the baby had been awake and crying half a 
dozen times. 

Minnie had opened her attack on Alec. Mr. Petersen 
heard her, hour after hour, raging, crying, pleading with 
him in his room. Time after time he had tried to go 
out, but she would spring in front of him and bar the 
door. 

‘‘You’ve got to listen to me 1” she shrieked. 

At last, very reluctantly, Mr. Petersen felt obliged to 
intervene. He knocked on the door two or three times 
unheard, for the storm was raging wildly. Then he 
turned the knob and walked in. Minnie was on her knees, 
clasping Alexander tightly, while he stood, white and 
cold, not even looking at her. 

Mr. Petersen was shocked and for the first time angry 
at Minnie. 

“Get up!” he commanded. “This is disgusting!” 

She turned her face, blistered with tears, to him. 

“Don’t, don’t, dojt’t let him go!” she cried, “Chris, for 
Heaven’s sake !” 

He made the fatal mistake of trying to argue,with her. 
He was quiet and reasonable, and she aped his manner 
to perfection. Argued with him, the distorted and 
plausible arguments of a madwoman, became quiet, 
scornful. She involved him in a maze, bewildered and 
226 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 227 

confounded him, and made it more and more difficult for 
him to keep his temper. 

Alec gave him sound advice. 

“IPs no use talking to her,’' he said. “She never 
listens.'' 

They all became violent and rude. Sandra waked up 
and came running in, barefooted, wide-eyed, pale, stood 
listening for a long time. Then the baby began to cry 
again and Minnie hurried to it, but when Alec tried to 
escape downstairs, she flew after him, baby in arms, and 
again barred his way. 

An awful night! Mr. Petersen unlocked his office and 
sat down with a great sigh. Never suspecting the far 
more awful night that was drawing in upon him. The 
climax, which so strangely and regularly occurs in human 
affairs, the definite point of departure, of division be- 
tween the old days and the new, was approaching. His 
doom drew near. 

He had just begun to lose himself in his business papers 
when there was a rap at the door. It was too early for 
Miss Layne; he was rather surprised; he called out 
“Come in I” and the instrument of fate entered. 

It was Frances. 

He was astonished and pleased. He had always ad^ 
mired Frances. He brought forward a chair. 

“Miss Defoe I” he exclaimed. “It’s been a long time 
since I’ve seen you !” 

“Five years, nearly,” she answered with a sigh and a 
smile. “But you haven’t changed a bit 1” 

She had, he thought; she had improved. She looked 
older; no longer a girl, but straighter, more vigorous, 
more nobly honest than ever. Her face was a little cold 
in its severe, composed beauty, but not at all hard. A 
woman who expected a great deal, but who also forgave 
a great deal. She was dressed very plainly but with dis- 


228 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

tinction, with pride. He could see no sort of resemblance 
to Minnie. 

‘‘And where have you been all the while?’’ he asked. 

“Out on the Coast. I went out as a doctor’s secretary. 
Then I helped him with some research work. He recom- 
mended me to other doctors, so I set up a little office of 
my own. For very special sort of work. Only medical. 
Compiling and revising and translating books and articles 
doctors wrote. I was doing very well. I’d got quite a 
reputation in my line.” 

He admired her modest pride, her simple assumption 
of his interest in her affairs. He praised her enterprise. 

“I like it. It’s been very interesting. And profitable. 
And I’ve learned a great deal. I’ve watched operations. 
I’ve even helped doctors in an unofficial way. Especially 
with children. And now I’ve come East again to see if 
I can’t get into the war somehow. I’m not a nurse, but 
I could train for special work. I’ve lots of letters to 
all sorts of people. I think I could be useful some- 
where.” 

“I should think so,” he said, thinking to himself that 
such a woman would be useful in any place. Their eyes 
met in a glance almost affectionate, a regard made up 
of memories of the old days of faithful work together, of 
their old respect and esteem. 

“I wanted,” she said, with a smile, “to have another 
look at Brownsville Landing, and Mr. Petersen. I’ve 
always remembered you. I think, in the old days, I didn’t 
quite appreciate you, and I wanted — it’s sentimental, isn’t 
it — but before I went to Europe I wanted to come back 
and say thank you, for all the many, many kind things 

you did for us. I don’t think any of us realised 

Only now, after I know the world a little better. I’m able 
to judge you a little better.” 

He turned scarlet with delight and confusion. He 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 229 

had never before heard such words, never received ac* 
knowledgment of his generosity. 

‘‘I had to tell you,’’ she went on, “in case I didn’t come 
back . . . I’ve seen a good many people in these last 
years. I’ve learned what to expect, more or less. And I 
can see now how rare it was — the way you treated us. 
There we were, living on your bounty, and turning up 
our silly noses at you. Silly, shabby little snobs! Only 
we didn’t know any better. We didn’t know anything at 
all. We really weren’t able to appreciate ” 

“Please stop I” he said, laughing, “I can’t listen.” He 
was silent for a minute. 

“You make me very proud and happy,” he went on, 
at last. “What I did was nothing. I had a great re- 
gard for your family. And I sincerely regretted all your 
misfortunes. I . . . It’s very kind of you to speak to 
me in this way ” 

He held out his hand. 

“Thank you again,” he said. “You don’t often find 
people willing to express a good opinion of one. Bad 
points — mistakes, they're mentioned fast enough ” 

“Don’t I know!" she cried, grasping his huge paw. 

“Now!” said he, still beaming, “You’ll come home 
with me and see Minnie, won’t you?” 

“Minnie! Here?” 

“I forgot you didn’t know. I’m married to Minnie.” 
Frankie’s face turned quite white. 

“But — married to Minnie! But ... I thought — Mr. 
Naylor . . . ?” 

“He died,” said Mr. Petersen. He knew nothing about 
Frankie’s connection with the dead man, or he wouldn’t 
have been so unconcerned. As it was, he was distressed 
at the change that came over her face. R was quite dis- 
torted for a minute, with grief, with anguish, with a 
terrible resentment. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


230 

‘‘Died!” she repeated. “I didn’t know!” 

He saw that there was something in this unknown to 
him. He kept silent. 

“And then she married you. Soon after, I suppose?” 

“I don’t know,” he had to answer. “I never asked 
her.” 

She looked squarely into Mr. Petersen’s eyes. 

“I was engaged to him once,” she said, “until Minnie 
took him away from me.” 

She was still for a moment. 

“I ought not to talk like this to you,” she went on. 
“It’s not fair. Only ... I thought I’d got over it . . . 
and all the time, it . . . was there. I . . . feel so — 
cheated!’* 

Her fine mouth quivered. 

Mr. Petersen rose. 

“Come,” he said, kindly. “Come home with me now 
and see Minnie. Perhaps she’ll have something to say 
to you.” 

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak to Minnie.” 

“I’m sure you could,” he answered. “I wish you’d 
try. Give her a chance to explain. Perhaps there’s a 
misunderstanding. And even if there isn’t, you’re . . . 
I’m sure you’re able to come. Please !” 

She got up with a sigh. 

“I might as well,” she said, “one can’t go on forever 
being cynical. It’s all over, long ago.” 

They went out together on to the Main Street, busier, 
more prosperous now, but still familiar to her. She 
walked by his side, with her fine, free stride, so very dif- 
ferent from Minnie’s anxious bobbing. They passed the 
Eagle House and turned the corner. 

. “Oh !” cried Mr. Petersen, suddenly. “There’s a piece 
of good news too. Your brother is with us.” 

“I haven’t any brother,” said Frances. 


MR. PETERSEN IS BROUGHT LOW 231 

‘‘Your brother who was in England/’ 

“But I never had a brother!” 

“Your brother Alec!” he said, quite loudly. 

“I never knew anyone called Alec in my life.” 

Mr. Petersen stopped short and grasped her arm. 

“Please, Miss Defoe,” he said, “try to recollect your 
brother. It — it’s very important!” 

She looked at him with a puzzled frown. 

“I’m sorry, but I never had a brother. Minnie and I 
were the only children. What made you ?” 

He looked terribly shocked. He couldn’t go on, but 
remained stock still in the street, wiping his brow with 
an enormous handkerchief. 

“Of course,” he said, in a stunned sort of voice, “it’s 
some — some kind of — misunderstanding. We’ll soon 
clear it up. Nothing to worry over.” 

But she could see how terribly worried, how fiHed with 
dread and horror he was, and she too grew apprehen- 
sive. 

“I wish you’d explain!” she entreated. 

“Wait! We’ll be home in a minute!” 

“Was there someone who pretended to be our 
brother ?” 

“Minnie said he was ... I ... it will be cleared up 
in a minute or two now. Nothing to worry over.” 

But he was absolutely panting, wiping his streaming 
face as if in the thick of some tremendous exertion. 

They went on down the quiet old street, to Mr. Peter- 
sen’s beloved home. It did not look at all as it had in 
the old days, when Frances used to go there for books; 
the curtains were dirty, blankets were hanging out of 
an upstairs window, and a baby’s toys littered the porch. 

“Is there a baby?” Frances asked. 

“Two,” he answered. “One of — ^his, and one of 
mine.” 


232 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


She smothered a bitter sigh, and went with him 
through the gate, up the walk and into the house. The 
sitting-room was empty, and very dirty; no one in the 
dining-room, where the breakfast dishes still stood. 

“They’re in the garden, I dare say,” said Mr. Petersen. 

They hurried through the vile kitchen and down the 
back steps. 

“There!” shouted Mr. Petersen, pointing to the end 
of the grape arbour. “There’s Minnie and your 
brother !” 

Frances gave a shriek that horrified him, that caused 
the two at the end of the garden to look up suddenly: 

“Her brother!” she cried, “Oh, Mr. Petersen! Mr, 
Petersen! It’s her husbandT 


BOOK FOUR: THE DESTRUCTION OF 
LIONEL 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


One might imagine a sort of allegorical picture of 
Minnie’s progress. There would be Minnie, in her 
triumphal chariot, dressed in modern garments for the 
reason that her rather short and matronly form would 
in no wise be suited by any classic costume; she would 
be standing upright, her expression anxious but resolute, 
driving with careful skill the twin steeds which had car- 
ried her so well — Sex and Wilfulness, the latter with a 
single eye. Before her walk slowly the victims dedi- 
cated to sacrifice on her altar, Sandra and little Robert. 
Their poor little faces bear the shadow of their destiny. 
Behind her walk Frances, erect as ever, but incurably 
wounded — the woman robbed of her one love, — and Mr. 
Petersen, the honest man despoiled of his good repute. 
And tied to the car itself, dragged stumbling in her wake, 
stripped to the scornful gaze of the populace, ruined, 
broken, is Lionel, fastidious ruler of a tiny kingdom for- 
ever lost to him, shorn of all his pride and prestige, most 
pitiable of all her victims. 

And she never glances back; her gaze is steadfastly 
forward, toward the future, where her children will 
surely suffer and die. She never looks to one side or 
the other, sees nothing of what she passes, neither the 
black valleys where lie bleaching bones, or the windy 
hill tops, bright and beautiful. Never hears a friendly 
hail or a warning cry, or a call for help. 

In fact, I think that when at last she comes to the end 
of her journey, she will not know at all where she has 
been. 


235 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 


I 

This is the story Lionel would have told, if he could. 
But, poor devil, he was as incapable of explaining him- 
self as if he had been a creature from another planet. 
Even the few extenuating circumstances of his case he 
was never able to bring forward. He had always taken 
pride in his reticence, in concealing his sentiments. And 
from having lain ignored so long, they had grown un- 
familiar to him, he didn’t know them when they came 
forth. Didn’t actually recognise his own feelings, past 
or present. He saw only that he was guilty ; he accepted 
that sentence, not pleading his own weakness even to 
himself. 

Poor devil! Poor devil! He never even knew that 
he had been the innocent victim of a most cruel seduc- 
tion. 

II 

His martyrdom had begun on New Year’s Day, when 
he had gone to meet Frankie’s train, and Frankie had 
not come. He had returned for the next, two hours 
later, in vain, and for all the others, until late at night. 
He had eaten a wretched little supper in a cheap restau- 
rant nearby and gone home to bed. He was stunned; 
he couldn’t believe in his misfortune. 

Next morning a telegram came. 

''Cannot return. Writing. Frankie.” 

He hadn’t a penny. He sat in his room all day wait- 
236 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 237 

ing for the letter, which reached him in the last mail 
that evening. 

“My dearest boy,’' she wrote, “the most dreadful 
thing has happened. My sister has gone away and of 
course I can’t leave Grandma alone and helpless. I am 
trying my best to think of some plan, but oh, Lionel, I 
am so worried about you! I enclose five dollars, which 
is all I have. I can’t imagine how you will make out. 
I have written a special delivery to Miss Eppendorfer 
to send me my salary, and I will forward it to you the 
instant it comes. My dear old boy! This is so miser- 
able ! Minnie has found some sort of place for herself, 
and says she is going to stay there for a year. I am 
thinking and thinking what I can do. Take care of your- 
self, my dear. Always your 

“Frankie. 

“P.S. Minnie is at my aunt Mrs. Lounsbury’s, 226 
Lenover Street, Brooklyn. You might go to see her and 
see if you can persuade her to come home. I don’t 
think it will do the least good, but it won’t do any 
harm to try.” 

He went that very evening, used Frankie’s five dollars 
for a taxi, in order to make a good impression. It was 
a raw, wet night, fit for his desperate mood. He was 
determined to force the beastly, selfish sister to release 
his Frankie. 

The taxi went across the bridge, over the mystical 
river, shrouded in fog, and turned into an avenue where 
trolleys crashed by and elevated trains thundered over- 
head, where fruit stalls did a brisk business with swarthy 
foreigners; a slum, he called it. He watched from the 
window in vain to find any place possible for an aunt of 
Frankie’s to inhabit. Then abruptly the driver swung 
round a corner, and left the unsavoury turmoil for a 
dark and quiet street, paved with cobblestones. A wind 
was blowing from the nearby river, bringing a dreary 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


238 

din of horns and whistles; there was no other sound, 
no traffic, no footsteps. 

*‘No. 226,” said the driver. ‘‘Here you are!’’ 

He got out, paid the fare with his last bill on earth, 
and climbed the steep flight of steps to the front door. 
There was an old-fashioned bell to be pulled; he heard 
it jangle inside. He waited in the wretched drizzle a 
long time, then rang again. The house was quite dark 
and the street too ; the blurred lamps showed nothing but 
glistening cobblestones and pavement, and one stealthy 
cat slinking past. He shivered and sighed. 

At last the door was opened and a head peered out 
cautiously. 

“Well?” enquired a feminine voice. 

“May I see Miss Defoe?” he asked. “It’s Mr. Naylor.” 

“Come in!” said the voice. 

He entered a narrow hall, lighted by a “Turkish” 
lamp, a pierced iron sort of thing, in which a feeble jet 
of gas burned. His guide turned to the right and lighted 
another gas jet, revealing a vast drawing-room, all the 
furniture shrouded in covers. 

“Sit down,” she said, pleasantly. “Fm sorry you had 
to wait so long, but we go to bed very early, and the 
servants can’t hear the bell, up on the third floor.” 

He asked again for Miss Defoe ; he had no interest in 
anything else. 

“Fm Miss Defoe,” said she. “What can I do for 
you ?” 

He scarcely looked at her. 

“Fve come to see ” he said, “to try to influence you 

if possible to ” 

“I suppose to go back and let Frankie come to the city 
again,” she interposed. “Fm sorry, but I can’t do it.” 

“I don’t think you realised what you were doing,” he 
said. “If you had, you wouldn’t — you couldn’t — have 
cut us off this way, without any warning. It was — 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 239. 

absolutely inhuman. Did you know that your sister and 
I intended to be married?’’ 

“She mentioned it,” said Minnie. 

Her calmness infuriated him. 

“Let me tell you!” he cried, “that I won’t submit to 
this. I’m going out there on Sunday and I shall try to 
persuade her to marry me at once.” 

“She can’t. She can’t leave Grandma.” 

“She’s not called upon to sacrifice her entire life to 
her grandmother, is she?” 

“No,” said Minnie slowly. 

She was thinking very hard. 

Lionel changed his tone. 

“I say! Miss Defoe! Please try to realise! You’re 

— I’m sure you don’t want to separate us You don’t 

want to make your sister suffer. She’s always spoken 
so affectionately of you. You know she wouldn’t treat 
you this way. Let her come back and marry me, and as 
soon as I’m on my feet a bit, I’ll do anything for you — 
anything you like.” 

Minnie did not answer, or raise her eyes. She was 
still thinking. It was intolerable for her to be looked 
upon as heartless and selfish by this very nice young 
man. He pleased, he charmed her; she determined to 
appear well in his eyes. She was always inordinately 
sensitive to blame; it was vital to her to be admired by 
everyone. She didn’t so much intend to lie, as to idealise 
I herself, to show him the Minnie she felt he would re- 
spect. 

She found her note, with her unerring instinct. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, hesitatingly, “but 
I must be frank. You see, Mr. Naylor, Frankie’s noth- 
ing but a child. She’s so impulsive and unreasoning. 
She’s not practical like I am. That’s the reason I had 
to do as I did. I couldn’t stop her any other way.” 

“Do you mean you — did this on purpose ?” 


240 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


“Why, of course. She told me . . . forgive me for 
mentioning it . . . how very poor you were — and I 
couldn't let her make such a marriage. Not that way, so 
rashly — and a man we’d never seen. She will never 
listen to reason. I begged her to wait, even a little while; 
I didn’t want her to throw herself away. The only 
way was to make her a sort of prisoner, as I did. Aunt 
Irene had said ages ago that I could come here as her 
companion any time I wanted, so I packed up my things 
and went off at once. Then I intended to see you and — 
find out something about you.’’ 

“Frankie doesn’t know you came for that reason — to 
prevent her marrying me,” he said, in a crestfallen way. 

“I suppose not; she’s very hasty in her judgments. I 
suppose she puts it all down to selfishness and hard- 
heartedness. It doesn’t matter though, so long as I’ve 
saved her.” 

He had not a word to say. Minnie had accomplished 
her favourite piece of magic, had made her opponent 
feel utterly guilty, had quite put him in the wrong. He 
was ready to believe that Frankie had been “saved” 
from a penniless and highly undesirable suitor. 

“You don’t know what Frankie is to me,” said Minnie, 
improving as she went on, “there’s nothing — nothing I 
wouldn’t do for her. I do wish she didn’t misjudge me 
so. She’ll never know how hard it is for me, how I 
hated to leave home. I’m not like her — adventurous 
and enterprising. I was happy there on the farm, with 
the animals. And Grandma,” she added hastily. 

“Well, you see,” said Lionel, weakly. “You didn’t 
explain to her. How could she help ” 

“How could I explain!” she answered, reproachfully. 
“Only think how self-righteous and disgusting it would 
have sounded. Besides, she wouldn’t have believed me. 
And she would have thought that she knew what was 
best for herself. It would only have made more trouble.” 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 241 

Lionel was no longer indignant and resolute; he was 
becoming more and more uncertain of himself, more 
and more apologetic. 

'‘But,'’ he protested, “now we can’t see each other at 
all. It’s not only a question of getting married at once; 
it means that we’re to be entirely separated. Don’t you 
think that’s unnecessarily harsh?” 

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go out to see 
her.” 

He flushed. 

“Not very well,” he said; “at the present time. I’m 
rather — hard up.” 

“I should be glad to lend ” Minnie began, but he 

frowned. 

“Thanks, no.” 

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Minnie, “that you 
haven’t even the train fare to Brownsville Landing?” 
Her tone was blunt but kindly; quite that of an elder 
sister. “And you’re talking of marriage^ Mr. Naylor!” 

“I have a small income,” he protested, “only the next 
quarter’s not due just yet.” 

Minnie smiled her rare smile, and it warmed his heart. 
A smile so simple, so good-natured, so illuminating her 
dark and serious face. 

“I’m afraid you don’t manage very well,” she began, 
when a very shrill old voice interrupted her, calling from 
the top of the stairs. 

“Minnie! Minnie! What’s all this?” 

“I’ll have to go,” said Minnie, with a sigh, and held 
out her hand. “Mr. Naylor, I’d like to say a great deal 
more. You mustn’t look on me as your enemy by any 
means! Quite the contrary. If you and Frankie will 
trust to me a little — I could meet you to-morrow after- 
noon, on the downtown corner, about four. I’d like to 
talk to you more fully.” 

He had no chance to answer, for she had hurried from 


242 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


the room; as he let himself out of the front door, he saw 
her running up the stairs to the disagreeable old voice. 

Then he went out into the fog again, unreasonably 
comforted, unreasonably hopeful. 

Ill 

Of course he was waiting for Minnie the next day as 
she had appointed. She was late, as she always was, and 
Lionel had grown a little impatient. 

He had much he wanted to say, a number of argu- 
ments he had arranged during the night. He couldn’t 
remember Minnie very well, but he had gained a vague 
impression that she was a kindly, pleasant little body, a 
bit meddlesome and without distinction, but nice. He 
felt that he could manage her. She had smiled very 
good-humouredly. He was far from despairing. 

But he couldn’t help remembering so many other times 
when he had been waiting for his own dear girl, bright, 
brave old Frankie! Every memory of her was a pain; 
he could not endure to think of their parting, and her 
face, so hopeful, so full of tender anxiety for him. He 
longed so for her, for the support of her love and her 
courage. No one else would do, no other voice console 
him. 

At last he saw Minnie coming, a queer, dowdy little 
figure in black, hurrying toward him with short, bobbing 
steps. 

‘T’m sorry!” she said, breathlessly, *'but it’s not easy 
for me to get away . . . Shall we walk? There are 
nice quiet streets about here.” 

‘^ust as you please,” he answered. Some of his hope- 
fulness had left him after the first proper daylight look 
at her. Her appearance was so discouragingly adult and 
reasonable; so altogether foreign to romance. She was 
not smiling either. 


243 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 

He began resolutely. 

‘‘Miss Defoe, I don’t think you quite understand 
the ” 

“Oh, I do!” she assured him, earnestly. “Indeed I do! 
I’ve thought of nothing else since I heard of it. Mr. 
Naylor, I want to help you and Frankie. I want you 
both to be happy. But I don’t — I caiift think it wise for 
you to marry just now. I don’t in the least want to 
separate you entirely. That would be cruel. I only want 
Frankie to wait until you are — ^more — better ...” 

“I understand.” 

“I wish very much you’d let me lend you enough to go 
out and see her ” 

“Miss Defoe 1” he said sternly, “I said before I can’t 
listen to that.” 

She laid her hand on his arm and looked up into his 
face with a troubled frown. 

“Mr. Naylor! It’s just as Frankie’s sister I’m speak- 
ing. . . . It’s only because I want to understand. I’m 
practical, much more so than Frankie. Won’t you please 
tell me just how — just what your income is — what your 
prospects are?” 

She watched his face. 

“Please don’t resent it,” she said. “It’s not curiosity !” 

“I’m sure ” he answered, with vague politeness. 

But nevertheless he did resent it; that was Frankie’s 
business and his business, and not Minnie’s. She held 
them both in her power, however, and he was obliged 
to answer her. 

“I’ve about five hundred dollars a year,” he said 
stiffly, “that’s all. I’m looking about for a job of some 
sort.” 

“What business have you been in ?” 

“None. Except for a few weeks with my brother.” 

“Can’t he help you?” 


244 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


“No . . . Not exactly. We’re not on good terms.” 

“That’s too bad! What do you expect to find? What 
sort of job?” 

“I don’t know. Frankie used to suggest things. She 
knew the country better than I, of course.” 

“Poor Frankie! And that’s what you were counting 
on — some sort of work!” 

She sighed. 

“I’m sorry for you. You don’t know the trouble you’ll 
have.” 

He was nettled, as she meant him to be. Her inten- 
tion was to make him feel a fool, to show him the utter 
folly of Frankie’s ideas. He could not bring himself 
to tell her that Frankie had intended to keep her own 
position, he was ashamed of that. He felt that Minnie 
despised him, and he didn’t blame her. 

He thrust his hands into his empty pockets, and silently 
cursed the universe — and Minnie. He hadn’t even money 
for his dinner. Not a sou. And no Frankie to advise 
him. He had a sudden terrible feeling of desolation. 

“Oh, Lord !” he groaned. 

“What is it?” asked Minnie. 

“I suppose ... I haven’t any right to think of 
Frankie. I suppose — if I let her alone, she’ll forget me, 
and make a better match out there.” 

Minnie knew what the matrimonial prospects were in 
Brownsville Landing; still she looked grave. 

“One can never tell,” she said. “Still, Mr. Naylor, I 
certainly shouldn’t give up hope if I were you. I’d only 
think of the marriage as postponed. Until you’re doing 
— better.” 

“That’s all very well. But to be on the point of marry- 
ing a girl like Frankie, and then to lose her, for an in- 
definite length of time — it’s not easy.” 

“But she’s worth waiting for!” cried Minnie, like a 
good sister. 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 245 

‘‘Yes/' he answered, bitterly, “but Fm not. Look at 
me! I haven’t a penny in my pocket, as I stand here. 
Not much better than a beggar.” 

It was his old black depression, which he had grown 
accustomed to having assuaged by Frances. And now 
there was no Frances, and no encouraging words. 

They had been strolling through moribund streets for 
some time, and were now back at the corner where they 
had met. 

Minnie held out her hand, in a shabby glove that 
Frankie could not have worn. 

“Good night I” she said, “and please give me your ad- 
dress. I want to think things over, seriously. You’ll 
hear from me very soon. . . . And in the meantime, 
won’t you write to Frankie? Tell her all I’ve said. Per- 
haps she’ll listen to youf* 

He went back to his room completely crushed. He 
was a fool, Frankie was a misguided and romantic girl; 
there was no light in the world. They would never, 
never be able to marry. He sat down and wrote as 
Minnie had suggested. 

Frankie, reading the letter, had no way of knowing 
how he felt, writing it. She couldn’t see him, or read 
his heart, and the very deepest love gives no key to the 
beloved’s mystery. It was a genuine act of self-sacrifice 
on his part. He felt it his duty to point out all the 
drawbacks and penalties of such a marriage, as seen 
through the eyes of Minnie and the world; all the old 
obstacles she had so gallantly disdained, and a host of 
new ones, born of his own despondency and humiliation, 
and of his lack of food. She could read in it only 
reluctance and coldness. It hurt her beyond measure. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


I 

He woke up the next morning dizzy and sick, and quite 
obsessed by the question of food. Marriage and love 
were relatively unimportant. Not that he was hungry, 
at all, only dreadfully empty and weak, and frightened 
about his condition. He wondered if it were possible 
for a person of his class really to starve to death, 
whether his pride, and his love for Frankie were strong 
enough, if he could hold out, and not turn to Horace. 

“What in God’s name can I do?” he asked himself. 
“Ten days before I have a penny! Ten days!” 

His mind dwelt persistently on one of those cheap, 
white-tiled restaurants, crowded with people, places 
formerly despised. If only there were a quarter in some 
forgotten pocket! 

He had nothing to read, not even a magazine. No 
one to speak to. Not an earthly thing to do. He lay 
down on his bed and dozed away hours in a half -stupor. 
He began to imagine that he was already starving. 

The next morning a letter slid under his door, as he 
had expected. But it was not the hoped-for letter from 
Frankie; it was from Minnie, and it enclosed a ten dollar 
bill. She wrote as his grandmother might have written 
— spoke of the difficulties of a young man, a stranger in 
the city. “Repay me when you are able,” she said, and 
signed herself “Frankie’s sister.” 

He was furious. 

“I suppose she thought I was hinting at a loan when 
246 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 247 

I told her I hadn’t a penny in my pockets,” he thought 
‘‘She has no more sensitiveness than a rhinoceros.” 

But in the end, he kept the money, knowing he could 
pay it back in nine days. And wrote at once to Minnie, 
thanking her. He made up his mind that he would 
never, never face her again. He would return the money 
by letter, and she shouldn’t hear of him again until he 
was a successful man and able to marry Frankie. His 
attitude at this future time would be amused, tolerant, 
very superior. He was horribly ashamed of himself for 
taking her money ; it poisoned every mouthful he ate. He 
didn’t like her anyway; he was afraid of her. Neither 
was he grateful. Instinct was warning him of a snare. 

II 

There was another note from her the next day. 

“Dear Mr. Naylor: If possible, will you please come 
to tea this afternoon at four? I want particularly to 
see you. Mary Defoe.” 

He wrote a curt reply, that he was too busy, then, 
thinking better of it, tore that up, and wrote another 
one, accepting. 

He was annoyed with her and her persistence, but, 
after all, she was Frankie’s sister, and the arbiter of 
Frankie’s fate. 

Punctually at four he presented himself at the front 
door of the dismal old house, and was admitted by a 
lean, elderly maid. She showed him into the same 
enormous sitting-room with shrouded furniture. 

“Miss Defoe will be down in a minute,” she said, 
severely. 

The place had a sort of chill magnificence which im- 
pressed him; he was fond of magnificence, anyway. 
Minnie increased in importance through being able to re- 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


248 

ceive him in such an environment. He had been in- 
clined to think her very ordinary, an opinion not to be 
held of the niece of such a drawing room. 

It was the stillest house imaginable. Not a sound of 
any sort. He sat uneasily on a mammoth sofa, with 
nothing to hear, nothing to see but pictures muffled in 
netting, nothing that he cared to think about. His watch 
had gone long ago, and the marble clock on the marble 
mantelpiece had stopped . . . 

At last there was a faint rustle overhead, and then 
the sound of very slow steps on the stairs, and in a minute 
Minnie entered, leading by the arm a frail little old 
woman in black silk, a nervous, pampered shadow of 
former elegance. 

And this old lady remained in the room until Lionel 
went away. She was polite enough in her own peculiarly 
unpleasant way, and she evidently regarded his visit as 
a call upon herself, a compliment which she appreciated. 
Tea was served, very weak tea, too, with limp little 
biscuits; the old lady chattered banal and ill-humoured 
comments on news of the day, and at last the room began 
to grow dark, and Lionel took his leave. 

She rose and held out a feeble old claw. 

‘‘Come again!” she said, and meant it, he knew. “We 
don’t see much company.” 

He went away puzzled and annoyed. Why had Minnie 
sent for him? She had scarcely spoken a word to him, 
hadn’t given him a significant glance. He couldn’t un- 
derstand, couldn’t guess at her object, but he felt quite 
sure that she had one, and that it was one he didn’t like. 

Ill 

Lucky for him he didn’t know her object, or see the 
sword suspended over his head. He had enough trouble 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 249 

as it was, poor fellow. When he got home, there was 
his eagerly expected letter from Frankie. 

“My dear Lionel,’' she wrote, “I see that you have 
evidently changed your mind, and that you consider our 
former plan wild and impracticable. No doubt ‘you are 
right; at any rate I shan’t urge you or try to influence 
you. I am sure that anyone as prudent and cautious as 
you will get on in the world. I hope so, sincerely. Please 
look upon yourself as not bound in any way. 

“Always your friend, 

“Frances Defoe.” 

He knew the answer to that letter — to take the first 
train, to hurry to her and take her in his arms, to tell 
her how he had longed for her and missed her. He 
read her hurt in every word, and it made him desperate. 
He swore to himself that somewhere and somehow he 
would get the money to go at once and marry her. Then 
he didn’t care what happened, even if they had to be 
separated, even if Frankie stayed with her grandmother 
for months while he tried to find work. He knew, 
absolutely knew, that there was no time to be lost. 

He went off at once to Horace, but Horace and Julie 
had gone on a motor trip for ten days. Then he took a 
bold step. He telephoned to Minnie. 

Her pleasant, troubled voice answered the telephone. 

“Miss Defoe,” he said, “I need five dollars more, 
badly. Will you ?” 

“Wait!” she answered, and after a pause, in a lower 
voice, “At the same corner — at five.” 

IV 

The poor idiot had made up his mind to throw himself 
on Minnie’s mercy, to confide in her, and he did. 

“I can’t stand it!” he told her. “It’s too much — it’s 


250 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


breaking her heart. And it's — too much for me. 
Sensible or not, it doesn’t matter. You’re a woman, you 
ought to understand. I — I beg you to help us. To — 
have pity. I . . . I’m not much good at talking — but if 
you knew how I — care for Frankie, and what she is to 
me . . . We — it’s not right, by Jove! It’s not right for 
us to be separated. I’m no good without her. I need 
her. If I have her with me. I’m sure I can amount to 
something. But not alone. I’m no good without her,” 
he repeated. 

In the twilight he couldn’t see her face, but her voice, 
when she replied, was not unsympathetic. 

‘T’ll see,” she said, 'T’ll think.” 

^‘No 1” he answered, with unusual decision, ‘Tlease de- 
cide now. I can’t wait. I can’t stand another night. If 
you’ll lend me five dollars more. I’ll go to her to-morrow 
morning.” 

‘T haven’t got it now. I don’t get my week’s salary 
until to-morrow.” 

‘'And you’ll let me have it then?” 

‘T — oh, yes, I will!” she answered, with a sort of 
sob. 

“You’re a brick — Minnie!” he cried, joyfully, and 
seized her warm little hand. “Sister Minnie ! I won’t for- 
get this!” And hastened off to send a telegram to 
Frankie. 

''Coming to-morrow. Lionel.” 

Minnie walked home very slowly. In the evenings 
she always played cards with the old lady from the time 
when she woke up from her after-dinner nap until eleven. 
This evening was just as usual. During the nap, which 
was never mentioned, Minnie sat looking over the morn- 
ing paper, a decorous and sober little figure; then, when 
the querulous old voice suggested a game, she rose with 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 251 

well-paid cheerfulness, brought out the pack and the 
folding table, played conscientiously and amiably, led 
the old lady upstairs at the proper time, said “Good- 
night,’^ fetched her a glass of water, and then was free. 

She retired to her own little room, locked the door 
after her, and stood still in the dark, with clenched 
hands. 

“She shan’t have him !” she whispered. “I won’t give 
him up! I won’t! I won’t!” 

Lionel didn’t suspect the effect his innocent grey eyes 
had had upon that heart, never before touched! But 
she had been fully aware, from the first time she had seen 
him. It was too startling and intense a feeling to be 
mistaken. She had made up her mind then. He was 
the one man on earth for her. She had never even 
fancied herself in love before, and never did again. It 
was her unique passion. 

She didn’t deceive herself. She admitted that she in- 
tended to get Lionel away from Frankie by hook or by 
crook. Of course, being Minnie, she felt that it would 
be for his good and for Frankie’s good, and that she 
was doing it largely for their sakes. She and she alone 
was the infallible judge of what was best for everyone 
on earth. She had no misgivings on that score. Her 
only anxiety lay in her knowledge that Lionel was not 
at all attracted by her, and that, left to himself, he never 
would be. She wasn’t the sort of woman he liked. 

Her original intention, when she had seen ample time 
ahead, had been to enlist old Mrs. Lounsbury on her 
side, to make everything very correct, very regular, in 
contrast to Frankie’s wildness. And then, later, to hold 
out prospects, all sorts of alluring prospects, of assistance 
from the old lady, of an unassailable “position” in their 
married life, of respectability and money, which she 
had seen that he coveted. For, like all women who can 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


252 

‘‘manage’' men, Minnie had an unerring flair for the 
weak point; that being the pivot upon which they may 
most easily be swung. She knew what she was doing 
when she asked Lionel to tea. She had first carefully 
prepared her aunt with stories, wholly fictitious, of hi^ 
social standing and eligibility, and his affection for her- 
self. She knew that he would appreciate the atmosphere 
of money and solidity there, and that it would reflect 
credit upon herself. The next step, already arranged 
with her approving aunt, was an invitation to dinner. 

But that wouldn’t serve now, if he were going to be 
so impetuous. She would have to work quickly. If he 
saw Frankie again, or had many more letters from her, 
all would be lost. A desperate step was necessary, and 
she took it. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 


I 

Minnie had asked Lionel to stop at home the next day 
until he heard from her, and of course, he did so, simply 
darting out, once for breakfast, once for lunch. 

He was very nervous for fear he’d miss the afternoon 
train to Brownsville Landing. Frankie would be ex- 
pecting him, perhaps she’d meet the trains. He couldn’t 
bear the idea of her waiting disappointed, at the station. 
After that train at three, there wasn’t another until seven ; 
he was sure she couldn’t manage that. 

And still he was happy and full of hope, of Frankie’s 
fine spirit of adventurousness; he gloried in the rash- 
ness of the marriage, felt strong, masterful, able to cope 
with the world. Poor Lionel! Frail barrier against 
which the stream of Minnie’s life force was to hurl 
itself! He had but an hour more to remain upright, 
before he was swept down and submerged and laid flat 
forever in the mud. An hour more of manhood. 

II 

Three o’clock had passed, and he knew that day to be 
lost. It was five o’clock and he had just lighted the gas 
when there was a knock at his door, and he discovered 
Minnie herself in the dark hall. 

He was surprised and a little shocked ; wondered what 
the landlady would think. Still, of course, he had to ask 
her in, and in she came, and sat down in his one chair. 

253 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


254 

He was obliged to sit on the bed, an informality very 
distressing to him. He didn’t like this sort of thing at 
all; it wasn’t correct, it wasn’t well-bred. 

He waited and waited for her to speak, but she re- 
mained silent, pale and rigid. And no wonder, consider- 
ing what was in her head ! 

“I’ve brought it!” she said. 

“Thank you!” he said. “It’s awfully good of you. 
We’ll never forget it!” 

She smiled constrainedly, but said nothing. Her eyes 
wandered about the mean, shabby room, with the dusty 
yellowish carpet on the floor, the narrow painted bureau 
covered with a torn towel, the iron bed with its one flat 
pillow, his smart little trunk, so out of place there. So 
intent was she that he fancied she was about to make 
some comment on the poverty of which he was ashamed. 
But she only said: 

“I do wish I had a cup of tea! I’ve such a head- 
ache !” 

“We can go out ” 

“Oh, couldn’t we have it here? Isn’t that a spirit 
lamp?” 

“Yes,” he answered, reluctantly, “but I’ve no milk or 
sugar ” 

“I’m sure you can get them very near here.” 

He could think of no polite reason for refusing, so he 
went out to buy what she told him, slipping in and out 
of the front door, in mortal terror lest the landlady 
should catch him and tell him ladies weren’t allowed in 
the gentlemen’s rooms. Why did Minnie do such an 
extraordinary, unnecessary thing? v 

When he got back, the spirit lamp was lighted and the 
little kettle beginning to hiss, while Minnie sat watching 
it. She looked very much at home. She had taken off 
her jacket and hat, and he fancied that her hair was 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 255 

better dressed than usual, that she was wearing a rather 
gayer blouse, in short, that she was ‘‘dressed up.” 

“Now then I” she said, cheerfully, “aren’t we cozy?” 

“Rather!” he answered, gallantly, and might have 
added, “Too cozy!” 

He was like the innocent young heroine in a drama; 
he had a dim perception of something evil, he felt that 
he ought not to be there alone with Minnie. 

The tea seemed to do her good, for she revived, and 
became quite animated, talked to him about Frances, 
their childhood, their schooldays, anything and every- 
thing. The friendly, disarming air, the classic second 
step of the seducer ! He was amused by her chatter, but 
he didn’t lose his feeling of uneasiness. Because, in spite 
of her immeasurably respectable appearance 

The clock struck seven and he felt obliged to protest. 

“I say !” he cried, in pretended surprise, “seven o’clock ! 
Shan’t we go out and — take a walk — have a bit of sup- 
per somewhere?” 

“Oh, no,” said Minnie, “I’ll have to be going.” 

She rose and picked up her hat. But did not put it 
on ; at last put it down again and opened her worn little 
pocketbook. 

“Here is the money, Mr. Naylor,” she said, and held 
out a bill to him. 

Then, as he took it, suddenly she flung herself into the 
chair and buried her face in her hands. 

“Oh!” she sobbed, “Oh! It’s too hard!” 

He was frightened and disconcerted. He knew women 
were liable to such curious attacks, but he had never 
before witnessed one. It made him so sorry for her 
weakness and inferiority. Poor little thing! Poor emo- 
tional, unbalanced Woman! 

“I say!” he said, “What is it? Please don’t cryl” 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


256 

The huddled little figure didn’t reply, kept on weep' 
ing in a muffled sort of way. 

‘Tlease tell me!” he entreated. He went so far as 
to pat her shoulder, while he cast about for something to 
say or to do. 

‘Ts it on account of Frankie?” he asked. 

She raised a miserable, tear-stained face and looked 
straight at him. 

“No!” she cried. “I — I thought I was able — to give 
you up — but oh, I can’t !” 

“Give me up !” exclaimed the astonished Lionel. 

Her great black eyes, their long lashes wet and heavy 
with tears, were fixed upon his face with solemn in- 
tensity. 

“Yes !” she said, firmly. 

“But — exactly what ?” he stammered. 

“I don’t care if you do know it,” she said. 

He began to understand; he turned scarlet, he dared 
not look at her, and yet couldn’t take his eyes from her 
dark, desperate little face. 

Suddenly she stretched up her arms to him, like a 
child. 

“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, in such a pitiful voice that 
he couldn’t withstand her. She clung to him, sobbing, 
trembling, her head buried in his coat. 

“Oh, Lionel, I love you so!” 

He was immeasurably moved. He put an arm about 
her and very gently stroked her hair. 

“Don’t cry !” he said. “Poor little girl ! Don’t cry 1” 

To save his life he couldn’t have kept the least little 
trace of condescension out of his tone. He had never 
been made love to before; he felt that he hadn’t quite 
realised his own charm. He felt very, very kindly to- 
ward poor Minnie, unhappy victim to his fascination. 
An absolutely hopeless passion; she had to be made to 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONET 257 

see that, in the most humane way possible. He kept on 
patting her shoulder. 

“Lionel !” she said, looking up again with those really 
magnificent dark eyes, “Please — you won’t despise me, 
will you? I can’t — can’t help it! I never — in all my 
life 1” 

“Of course I don’t despise you! I think you’re a — I 
think you’re — a fine woman,” he said, ineptly. “Come 
now! Don’t cry, my dear girl! You’ll make yourself 
ill, you know.” 

As gently as possible he disengaged her clinging arms 
and made her sit down in the chair again, then he dipped 
a towel in cold water and wiped her swollen eyes. He 
had not as yet had time to realise the awkwardness of 
this affair; he was, to tell the truth, just a little elated. 
Supermanly. 

He talked to her soothingly until she had stopped cry- 
ing, then: 

“It’s getting late,” he said, “we’d really better be 

She jumped up again, so violently that her dishevelled 
hair came down and fell over her shoulders. She seized 
him by the wrist. 

“I won’t go!” she cried. 

And caught him round the neck and strained him to 
her, kissing him wildly. 

But why try to tell of all that — the eternal wiles of a 
passionate woman ? He had no weapon against her. He 
had his love for Frankie, but this was not love. He had 
his ideas of honour, he was fastidious, he was, after a 
fashion, somewhat austere. But his safety, and the 
safety of all his sex — lay only in avoiding the irresistible. 
And of all the allurements in the world, there is none 
to compare with the abandon of the respectable woman* 

Poor devil ! Poor devil ! 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


I 

Horace was in his private office, not at all busy, when 
his brother came in. He might, if he had been a child 
of nature, have jumped up and cried out that the light 
of his life had returned, but instead he made a decent 
effort to conceal his delight. 

‘‘Well!” he said, questioningly. 

“Well!” said Lionel, with just his old smile. 

Horace melted. 

“So you’ve thought better of it, eh? Find you haven’t 
many friends who’ll do for you what ” 

“The usual thing,” said Lionel, with a luxurious feel- 
ing of sinking down on a feather bed, of completely 
throwing himself upon someone else. “I’m in a mess, and 
I want your help.” 

This pleased Horace beyond measure. 

“Debts?” he asked, trying to frown. 

“No — not entirely. . . . Fact is, old boy, I’m mar- 
ried!” 

“By Jove! And that independent young lady’s willing 
to come round now, is she? Wouldn’t let you take any- 
thing from me, I remember. What is it now? Baby?” 

^‘Presently. But, I say, Horace, it’s not that one.” 

“Good God !” cried Horace, in amazement. “Another 
one !” 

“Her sister. . . . I — er — it’s hard to explain. ...” 

“She was a pretty girl,” said Horace, “I thought she’d 
suit you very well.” 


258 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 259 

Lionel’s face had become very red. It was undoubted- 
ly difficult to explain, and yet he wanted terribly to tell 
it all to someone, to hear another person’s comment, to 
be told definitely whether he was a natural man or a cad. 
Honestly he didn’t know. There were some incidents 
that absolutely couldn’t be mentioned. And yet, if they 
were omitted, the story would be unintelligible. 

‘Til have to — you’ll have to assure me — give me your 

word you’ll never mention this Especially to Julie. 

I’m only telling you because I want you to — understand 
the whole thing ...” 

He was very anxious, above all, to reniove any im- 
pression that he was fickle, unstable. 

“You see,” he began, “I — Frances and I were sepa- 
rated. More or less by her sister. That is, her sister 
thought it wasn’t a good match for Frankie, so she pre- 
vented it. She explained it all to me, perfectly frankly. 
She knows Frankie so well, you see. Knew she couldn’t 
be happy with me. So she . . . explained it all. Of 
course, I had to see her several times, to talk it over, and 
so forth. And — I — really, this is hard to tell, you know, 

without seeming She — the sister — took a sort of 

fancy to me. I didn’t — hadn’t any idea of such a thing. 
... I asked her to lend me some money so that I could 
go out to see Frankie' — and — she brought it over to me, 
in my room. ...” 

“Why?” enquired Horace, “What made her come to 
your room?” 

“Well — more or less, to talk about Frankie. . . . And 
— in fact, she . . . gave herself away, you know. . . . 
I really can’t explain very well, old boy, but — I rather 
lost my head . . . and — she stayed.” 

“Phew!” said Horace. 

“So,” said Lionel, and grew very red again, “Well, 
in fact — what else could I do? We took a furnished flat 


26 o 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


— and we weren’t going to say anything about it for a bit 
— and then this baby So we were married yester- 

day.” 

Horace was looking unusually grave. There were 
things about this affair he didn’t like. 

“You’re sure it wasn’t a trap? It looks mighty queer, 
my boy.” 

Lionel laughed. 

“I wish you knew Minnie,” he said. “Then you’d 
never think such a thing. She’s the most naive, simple 
little soul ” 

“But she should not have stopped there with. you. She 
must have known she was forcing you into a marriage. 
My boy. . . . It’s a bad business. How old is she?” 

“Twenty-four.” 

“Old enough to understand all that. My boy, I know 
you fairly well. I’d take an oath,” he said solemnly, 
“that you wouldn’t ^lose your head,’ as you put it, and 
take advantage of a respectable young woman unless 
you were given encouragement — an extraordinary 
amount of encouragement. Am I right?” 

Lionel was not able to be properly indignant. 

“I’ll admit,” he said, still very red, “that she’s — too 
fond of me. Too much faith in me. . . . But, Horace, 
old man, you mustn’t misunderstand her. She’s the best 
little woman on earth. Absolutely. An angel. Never 
complains. Never finds fault. There she is, all day 
long, shut up in that beastly little flat, while I’m hunting 
a job. No clothes, no amusements. Especially hard on 
her now.” 

He was rather surprised at the look he saw on his 
brother’s face, a compassion so deep, so comprehending. 

For Horace was quite certain that Lionel had been 
trapped, had been the dupe of a woman, whether loving 
or scheming, it mattered little. Perhaps she could be 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 261 

bought off — a divorce arranged, or something of that 
sort. 

^‘Well, old chap!” he said, “What can I do for you? 
How can I help you?” 

“That’s what I came to see you about. Fact is, 
Minnie’s longing to be in the country. Doctor says it 
would do her no end of good. I thought perhaps you’d 
finance a little house, lend me a bit, you know, or take 
a mortgage, or whatever it is they do.” 

Horace agreed at once. Lionel proceeded to the next 
point. 

“And I wish you’d come home with me and see Min- 
nie,” he said, “I’d like you to talk it over with her. She 
has very practical ideas. Can you manage it?” 

Horace looked at his watch and said he could. There 
was nothing he wanted more at that moment than to 
see Minnie. He believed that after even the briefest 
interview, he would know how she was to be got rid of, 
and Lionel saved. He had gained an impression of her 
as a dangerous and unscrupulous woman, who could do 
Lionel nothing but harm. 

An impression never effaced, although she was quite a 
different sort of person from the adventuress he had 
pictured. He sat talking to her for an hour or more, 
asking friendly questions. Minnie herself fancied that 
her domesticity, her womanliness were pleasing him, 
that he was reflecting upon the good Lionel would de- 
rive from this match. Whereas! He was, after all, the 
same Horace who had chosen for his wife a flamboyant 
and radiant beauty, the Horace who had for years been 
more than tolerant of his wastrel brother’s follies and 
caprices. He was a man with a fanatic love for charm 
and distinction and beauty, there could have been no 
one to whom Minnie’s sober dowdiness would have made 
less appeal. His pity for Lionel increased every minute. 


262 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


and he felt for Minnie something as near hatred as his 
kindly nature allowed. 

He said he was going to walk home, and Lionel of- 
fered to accompany him part of the way. 

“What do you think of her now?” he asked, anxiously, 
as they came out into the dusky street. 

“A very nice little woman,” Horace answered. He 
could not force himself to say more. Pain and disap- 
pointment seized him by the throat. Lionel in that dingy- 
flat, with that sallow, complacent woman who talked 
about growing vegetables in the suburbs. The sort of 
woman inevitably to grow fat. Shifty, too. Horace 
had had his experiences with women, there was a quality 
in this one not at all unknown to him. 

Lionel too fell silent. He was wondering just what 
he thought himself. He went back to the beginning; he 
was able to remember everything, every detail, and still 
it wasn’t clear — 

II 

It wasn’t clear how he, the lover of Frankie, could 
have so conducted himself with Minnie. And why he 
felt so little remorse or shame or even regret? 

He fancied that it must be because he loved Minnie. 
In Spite of thirty years in the world, he was still so 
sentimental, so ignorant, that he had no comprehension 
of the base and sensual passion which had overwhelmed 
him. Minnie was his wife; a fellow couldn’t feel that 
way toward his wife. He was obliged to call it love. 
He couldn’t imagine that Minnie, so serious and sensible, 
Minnie who didn’t even take much interest in how she 
dressed her hair, could be just as carnal, as gross, as 
any scarlet woman. He couldn’t see, in all her endless 
plans for his “comfort,” the hidden snare, the net that 
bound him closer. She thought of his food, his tobacco, 
that his bed should be comfortable, his linen mended. 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 263 

This ignorant and unbeautiful Circe was not content 
with his metamorphosis; the wretched swine must be 
taught to be more swinish. 

He thought he was happy. She was very loving, very 
cheerful, inordinately devoted. There was a sort of 
joy in coming back to a home of his own after a day’s 
futile search for something to do, no matter if the 
home were a furnished flat daily growing dirtier and 
dustier. He enjoyed the bright welcome and her sooth- 
ing interest in his adventures. She always agreed with 
him, always approved of what he did. 

Her condition touched him, too. He felt that she had 
given up everything for him, had sacrificed herself with 
a splendid ardour. He believed that he should, and did, 
admire all this, that there was something noble in that 
greedy violence, that reckless seizure of what she de- 
sired. 

She had been aware of the great advantage she had 
obtained from not being married. It made her more 
pathetic, more helpless. He had suggested it more than 
once, but she only cried and said she was ashamed. 

‘T know you despise me,” she insisted. 

“But, dearest, I don’t! I honour you!” he always 
answered. 

At last she tearfully confided her “secret” to him, 
and agreed to be married at once. She pretended to be 
glad, but she wasn’t. She hadn’t enough imagination to 
love an unseen child, and she certainly had no desire for 
one as a matter of principle. No more than an animal. 
And, like an animal, she was sure to love it when it 
came. Except for the fact that it gave her a hold on 
Lionel, she looked upon the whole affair as a bother 
and an expense. His delight seemed to her more or 
less absurd. 

He really was delighted; really happy for the time 
being. He was lost in an utter and gross satisfaction. 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


1 

Julie consented to go out with Horace one Sunday 
to see the young couple, although she was something 
more than reluctant. She was conscious of being an 
irreproachable woman and wife, so that when she 
wanted Lionel for herself, it was in a perfectly respec- 
table way. She really needed him. Horace was forty, 
stout, and what this daughter of a “Cattle King’' 
amazingly called “bourgeois.” As a husband he had ad- 
vantages, such as money and complaisance and inferi- 
ority, but as a playmate, he wouldn’t do at all. Lionel 
was required for sweetness and light. She had always 
enjoyed quarrelling with him. She had liked to humiliate 
him, because she had secretly looked upon him as a su- 
perior being. She was disgusted with him for marrying. 

She sat back in the limousine and talked petulantly 
about it to Horace. She had, of course, made the best 
of herself, looked her very loveliest, to make Lionel dis- 
contented and his wife miserable if possible. She was 
in white, a white serge frock and a small white toque 
from which floated a long wine-red veil. It gave her a 
sort of Oriental look, with her dark skin and immense, 
brilliant eyes. She knew Lionel would appreciate the 
effect. 

“What’s the creature like?” she asked. 

“Not pretty,” said Horace. “Dowdy, quiet little 
thing.” 

“But why? I can’t understand it. There’s something 

264 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 265 

damn queer about it, Horace. . He was crazy about that 
other girl, and at least she was good-looking. How did 
this one get hold of him? Of course he’s an awful fool; 
anyone could make a monkey of him, but still — a dowdy 
woman! That is a mystery! And right after his being 
engaged to that other one!” 

*‘He seems very happy,” said Horace. He was deter- 
mined to make the best of this business. 

“Lord!” cried Julie, “They don’t live here!” 

The motor had stopped before a very small house of 
unstained shingles, an unfinished looking little house, 
standing in a row of similar houses in a quite select resi- 
dential park of the cheaper sort. One knows what that 
implies; the sun-baked street lined with stripling trees 
that give no shade ; not a fence, not a hedge, every porch 
occupied and public as the sidewalk, the children in white 
Sunday shoes, everything glaring, immeasurably com- 
mon, and cheap, sweltering in the July sun. 

“Does he really live in this hole?” she asked. 

“They haven’t much money,” said Horace, apolo- 
getically. 

“Then give them some, for Heaven’s sake, and get 
that poor boy away from here!” 

She jumped out, aware that everyone on every porch 
was watching her, walked along the tiny path and up 
the front steps. Minnie at once opened the door, and 
behind her stood Lionel. 

Minnie, outwardly polite and modest, was absorbed 
in her inspection of Julie ; she didn’t know what she was 
saying, or hear a word that was said to her for a few 
moments. She formed an instantaneous opinion of her, 
judged her “fast” and “vulgar,” and led her into the 
little sitting-room. She knew this was going to be a 
grave encounter; she saw that domestic virtues would 
have little significance in those eyes. 


266 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


‘‘Would you like to come upstairs to take off your 
hat?” asked Minnie. 

“No thanks,” she answered, carelessly, without turn- 
ing her head. “Li, you’ve got awfully thin. Don’t you 
eat enough? Have you got a good cook?” 

“I’m the cook,” said Minnie, with her wide, bright 
smile, “I hope I’m a good one.” 

“Rather!” cried Lionel. “She’s a wonder, Julie.’^ 

“Is she?” said Julie. “That’s nice. I’ve never met 
a cook before.” 

Now that was warning enough; it was a challenge 
and not a subtle one either. But no one ventured to 
pick up her gage; certainly not Horace or Lionel, they 
were terrified. Not Minnie; she was very wary of such 
an adversary. 

Julie’s careless glance swept the sober little figure 
from head to foot. 

“Let’s see your doll’s house, Li,” she said. “It’s the 
smallest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

He got up, reluctantly. She really was a bit too — 
too obvious. He thought perhaps he’d speak to her, 
tactfully. And yet it was so good tO' see her, and her 
beauty and vividness, a breath from a vanished life. He 
couldn’t help a feeling of kinship with her, which was not 
loyal to Minnie. He saw so plainly How the house must 
look to her, and how Minnie appeared. Understood what 
she was thinking. 

He led her into the dining-room, furnished with a 
proper little “set” of light oak, the stupidest sort of room, 
neither pretty nor comfortable. He opened and hastily 
closed the door of the kitchen, which was evidently not 
prepared for inspection; then he took her upstairs to see 
three small bedrooms, with cheap white iron beds. 

She stopped him in the doorway of the last of these 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 267 

distressing rooms and put her hands on his shoulders, 
looking into his face with her wonderful eyes. 

^'Oh, you fool of a boy!” she said, “How could you! 
How long do you think you’re going to stand this!” 

“Julie,” he assured her, solemnly, “I’ve never been so 
happy before in my life.” 

It was true. In this ugly little place, in the midst of 
increasing and pressing worry over money, he had been 
content. He had believed that he had returned to some- 
thing simpler and better than his old life. He didn’t 
recognise it as a degradation. That is indeed the Minnie 
method. She had drugged him, stupefied him with a 
sort of low comfort. Only now, with Julie beside him, 
did doubts begin to arise. 

Julie stared at him. 

“I don’t believe it,” she said, bluntly, “You’re not 
going to pretend you’re fond of that awful dowdy 
little ” 

“I say, Julie! You’re ” 

“Be honest, then. I’m awfully sorry for you. Can’t 
you get a divorce or something?” 

“I’m not joking, Julie. She’s my wife, and I — really 
I can’t tell you what I think of her ” 

“I’ll tell you what I think of her. She’s a nasty, 
sneaky, hypocritical devil. I could see it at once. 

She’s ” Julie cast about for an expression, “She’s 

like a bad nun.” 

“Stop it, Julie! You ought to be ashamed of your- 
self.” 

“Rot! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, to be 
tricked by such a cheap little humbug.” 

They were interrupted by Horace coming upstairs in 
profound distress. 

“Hush!” he whispered, “You can be heard!” 

“What the devil do I care?” demanded Julie. 


268 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


"‘Can’t you behave like a lady?” he asked, still in a 
whisper. 

Her famous temper began to heat. 

“A lady!” she cried, “You wouldn’t know a lady if 
you saw one, any of you. A fine lot! A fat old money- 
grubber like you, and a grafter like Lionel, and that slut 
downstairs ! I certainly must be on my best behaviour 
here.” 

The manners acquired in the city had dropped away, 
revealing the older, truer self, the violent and reckless 
daughter of the “Cattle King,” the spoiled princess of a 
primitive community. She had plenty to say, she put 
her hands on her slim hips and attacked them all with 
vigour, thoroughly enjoying herself. She wanted to 
score off Minnie, and she did. And Minnie had to pre- 
tend not to hear. This was the sort of woman she 
couldn’t cope with, a woman she feared. 

Horace tried to remonstrate. 

“Shut up, Horace,” she said, briskly, “The creature’s 

a . Can’t you see the condition she’s in, and they 

haven’t been married a month?” 

That silenced everyone. 

“Now,” she said, at last, “I’m going. Come on, 
Horace !” 

“Not till you apologise to Lionel’s wife,” he said, 
weakly. 

“Oh, give her a cheque,” said Julie, “that’s the kind of 
apology she wants. Come on !” 

She went out of the house like a whirlwind, with her 
long veil floating behind her, and sprang into the car 
to wait for her husband, looking about at the citizens 
rocking on their porches with her brilliant, insolent eyes. 

“Oh, come on!” she called out to Horace, who was 
lingering in an effort to propitiate his hosts. “Let’s get 
out of this damned hole!” 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 269 

She startled and shocked the entire select neighbour- 
hood, as she had intended. And produced the desired 
effect of bringing Horace out at once. They spun away, 
driven by a chauffeur who couldn’t keep a grin from his 
face, leaving behind them astonishment, wrath and ex- 
citement. 

II 

It was quite natural that Minnie should cry. Lionel 
admired her for not crying much more. She dried her 
eyes, smiled ruefully, and got up. 

“I must get your dinner ready, darling,” she said. 

‘‘No hurry. Rest a bit, you poor girl ! By Jove! That 
was a beastly scene! No wonder you’re upset.” 

“I’m not upset now,” she said, quietly. “A person like 
that couldn’t affect me very much.” 

And with a splendid Defoe grandeur, she went about 
her work. 

As had her grandmother and Frankie, so did Lionel 
admire her housekeeping. Because she was always busy 
and always wearing an apron, he believed that she must 
accomplish an incredible amount of work. There was 
a great deal of dust about, the meals were always late 
and often burned, but that all went to prove what a lot 
there was to be done. She was so hurried, so anxious, 
always thinking of his comfort. 

And nothing but his comfort. Never of his soul, his 
spirit. She got the dinner on the table and sat down 
opposite, watching with a frown to see that he ate 
enough. She still wore her apron, and her hair was 
very untidy, but he was used to that now. Anyway he 
felt that he must never look upon Minnie with physical 
eyes, he was to treasure her only for her sublime moral 
worth, her self-sacrifice, her stern sense of duty, her 
noble womanhood. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


270 

‘‘Eat the pudding, dear,” she urge(^ “ICs all made of 
milk. It will do you good.” 

He smiled at her and obeyed. 

After dinner she made him sit in his comfortable 
chair on the porch with a cigar, while she washed the 
dishes. She would never let him help her. Pale and ex- 
hausted, doing everything in the most irrational way, it 
was quite nine o’clock before she could join him. 

At last she came out on the porch and sat down near 
him, creaking back and forth in her particular rocking- 
chair. Out of the darkness her voice came suddenly and 
amazingly. 

“I suppose we’ll have to patch it up.” 

“What?” he asked, puzzled, thinkmg of possible leaks 
in roof or ceiling. 

“This quarrel. With your sister-in-law.” 

“I shouldn’t call it a ‘quarrel,’ ” he said. “She in- 
sulted you, grossly. I don’t see how or why it should 
be ‘patched up.’ ” 

“I’m willing to overlook it,” said Minnie. “Anyway, 
what does it matter what such a woman says? It won’t 
do for you to quarrel with your brother.” 

“I don’t intend to. We’ll simply let the thing drop. 
But of course Julie can’t come here again, and we won’t 
enter her house.” 

“It isn’t her house; it’s your brother’s ” 

“I say! What are you driving at, Minnie? Haven’t 
you any pride?” 

She began to cry. 

“We’ll need a great deal of help from Horace,” she 
said, “and she’s quite capable of turning him against 
us. This baby’s going to be a terrible expense.” 

He rebelled rather vigorously at first, but of course, 
in the end, succumbed. Minnie’s sole view of the ex- 
pected baby as an anxiety and a crushing responsibility 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 271 

had begun to infect him. He too commenced to see it 
only as an expense that must be met — and met by Hor- 
ace. She reiterated ceaselessly that it was their '‘duty'* 
to this child to humiliate themselves, sacrifice all pride 
and independence. A curious doctrine, that the parents 
exist only to sustain their offspring, forever deprived 
of any original existence, any private aims, living only 
to convey physical nourishment. 

Ill 

The day came, the terrible expense began, and Min- 
nie's child entered the world. It must be admitted that 
Minnie behaved very badly. She was never good at en- 
during pain, and she was moreover in terror of dying. 
Altogether a bad time, for her, for the doctor, for the 
nurse, and for poor Lionel. 

But once the child was born, her fierce maternal pas^ 
sion flamed into life. She would have died to defend 
her baby. She nearly destroyed it with indulgence. 
That was her manner of loving. 

And she believed that the fact of having this child con- 
stituted a claim upon all the world. That whatever she 
did for its sake was fully justified. Because she loved 
it, she was licensed to take what she could for it, by any 
and all means to secure advantages for it. A sort of 
divine license given only to mothers, so that they could do 
no wrong; an unlimited indulgence. Be assured that she 
took advantage of it ! 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 


I 

They went on, God knows how, for two years. Al- 
ways in debt, always harassed, gradually going down and 
down, their style of living always deteriorating, them- 
selves becoming more indifferent, more slovenly. 

They ate their meals in the kitchen, horrible meals of 
fried chopped meat and eternal potatoes. The little 
child was pallid and under-nourished, they bought milk 
for her dutifully, but Minnie had perverted her appetite 
with sweets and all sorts of rubbish, and she refused to 
drink it, unless it were made ‘tasty’ with coffee or tea. 
Minnie even did the family washing, with incredible 
labour and pitiful results : Lionel went about dressed in 
greyish shirts and streaked soft collars. At first he suf- 
fered, but very soon he forgot to notice. 

Horace helped them generously, without question. 
But under Minnie’s influence, Lionel learned to feel no 
gratitude, even to feel resentful. For some reason the 
childless Horace was held morally responsible for their 
child. He didn’t do enough, in fact, he couldn't have 
done enough ; the most fantastic sacrifice would not have 
sufficed. Lionel rarely went to see him, and when he did, ; 
was constrained and formal. He communicated with : 
him by means of letters very unpleasant to receive. He 
was no longer a friend or a brother, he was — metaphors 
fail for his sex — he was the male equivalent of a milch 
cow, of the goose that laid the golden egg. No one j 
realised how the poor fellow suffered from this exploita- i 
tion. I 

272 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 273 

Lionel was a ruined man, his health impaired by Min- 
nie s loving cooking, his soul debauched by her dogma. 
He had never been resolute or original; his strength 
had lain in his conventionality, his acceptance of the 
principles taught him by others. And this faith in his 
tradition Minnie had stifled, to fell him with her own 
horrible doctrine of expediency. 

He tried to work. Horace offered to keep him on in 
his office, but it didn’t do. They quarrelled; Lionel, in- 
stigated by Minnie, said he wasn’t being paid enough, 
and didn’t have a position of sufficient importance. Hor- 
ace was very much a business man; he was willing to 
give, even to be bled, but business was sacred; he couldn’t 
put Lionel in a responsible place. 

He got him another job, but Lionel couldn’t keep it. 
He was very slow to learn, and very poor at figures. He 
wasn’t exactly stupid, but when he tried to hurry, he 
grew dazed and helpless. He was untrained and idiot- 
ically educated. He couldn’t compete with the men — 
even the girls — about him, with their wits sharpened by 
struggle and poverty, their shallow minds trained to run 
smoothly and rapidly in one groove. 

Next he tried to sell automobiles. He saw a splendid 
future in this, and so did Minnie. But after he had 
called on one or two ''prospects,” his enthusiasm van- 
ished. The average American was exasperated by his 
slowness, his quite unconscious air of superiority, by 
his English accent. He was treated very rudely and he 
couldn’t stand that. 

Then, on the strength of his distinguished appear^ 
ance, and the English accent, he got a place as clerk in a 
very select book shop of Fifth Avenue. He liked that, 
and the customers liked him. They were "society peo- 
ple”; they appreciated his air, and he was well-disposed 
toward them. He was a cheerful, sweet-tempered fel- 


274 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


low, willing to take any amount of trouble. But he 
knew nothing at all of books, and he could not learn 
the stock, couldn’t remember which books to push, or the 
names of former books by popular authors. And when 
he was asked, as he very frequently was, if he couldn’t 
recommend something ‘‘really good,” he had always to 
hurry and ask one of the clerks who could remember. 
After several months he was discharged. 

If it hadn’t been for Horace, he would have been en- 
tirely discouraged. But so long as there was Horace to 
find him jobs and to support him during the intervals, he 
kept up his courage. There was the possibility of some- 
thing delightful just round the corner. He rather en- 
joyed working, and trying new things. And it didn’t 
matter so very much if he did fail. There was always 
another chance to be had. 


II 

It was a very hot day in August, and Lionel found 
the trip from the city to his home suburb far from 
agreeable. He was in one of his moods for despising 
everything in his adopted country, a mood familiar to 
every alien in every country under the sun. He hated 
the way the people made themselves comfortable on the 
train, men with handkerchiefs in their collars and women 
in what he savagely called “ball dresses.” Personally 
he accepted hot weather in the proper British spirit, as 
one of the afflictions of the country, and he scorned to 
notice it by any extreme change of costume or of habit. 
He sat by an open window, but he kept his hat on, and 
his coat, and maintained at least a cool expression. 

Three years of trouble had changed his appearance 
very little. He was as slim, as elegant, as supercilious 
as ever, in spite of increasing shabbiness. He had come 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 275 

from an interview with a corset manufacturer who had 
advertised for salesmen, and who had instantaneously 
and violently rejected Lionel. He really couldn’t find 
anything to do. He wanted to work, and to succeed, 
but it was a bit too hard. What advantages he had were 
unmarketable. He was bored with sitting about at home, 
and he wanted very much to be independent of Horace 
and free from debt and worry, and he wanted new 
clothes. Poverty was beginning to disagree with him 
acutely. 

*‘No use!’* he said gloomily, as he came up the steps 
and sat down on the tiny front porch where Minnie was 
sewing, and keeping an eye on their child, digging in the 
sunny gutter. ^‘What about a cup of tea?” 

Then he noticed that she looked “queer.” 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Heat too much for you, 
old girl?” 

“No,” she said, and was silent for a moment. Then : 
“telegram from . . . I’m so sorry. . . . poor Horace is 
dead.” 

He had an odd feeling of deliberately putting off his 
grief until a more fitting time. He discussed the thing 
with Minnie as if it concerned a stranger. Apoplexy, 
Not to be wondered at. The funeral was to be on 
Thursday. 

“I don’t suppose Julie will be heart-broken,” said Min- 
nie. “She’ll be very well off, won’t she, Lionel?” 

He was aware that she longed to discuss his own pros- 
pects; how “well off” he was to be, but he refused to 
open the subject. It wasn’t decent. No doubt Horace 
had done the proper thing. 

That evening, after the child was in bed and Minnie 
in the kitchen washing the dishes, he went out on the 
porch with his pipe and consecrated an hour to Horace. 
Recalled his unfailing kindness, his justice, his melan- 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


276 

choly, saw, for an instant, and in a vague way, the 
tragedy of the man who is only a means of supplying 
others with money. Childless, friendless, the most ex- 
ploited creature under the sun. 

He knew what a loss he had sufYered ! And still had 
that wretched feeling that the real pain was coming 
later, that now only his brain knew it, not yet his 
heart. 

He had a sudden vision of that tea with Horace and 
Frankie, something more vivid than a memory. It 
brought an awful, blinding realisation of his present 
solitude. His two friends gone, and he left alone with a 
stranger. Minnie was a stranger. He couldn’t talk to 
her about Horace. 

“Poor old man!” he said, with a sigh for that kindly 
lost spirit. 

Ill 

Minnie was aware of something hostile in her hus- 
band’s attitude, and, with a very great effort, kept her 
opinions to herself. 

The hot weather held, and it wore her out. The child 
couldn’t sleep at night. Her difficulties grew mountain- 
ous, outrageous. Horace’s assistance had stopped and 
they heard nothing about his will. At last she was forced 
to attack. 

“Lionel,” she said, “I haven’t a penny. You’ll have to 
do something.” 

He was silent. 

“You know what those lawyers are,” she went on, 
“you have to keep after them. They expect it.” 

But Lionel flatly refused even to make enquiries about 
the will. He would not run greedily after old Horace’s 
money. 

“It’s not decent,” he said, stiffly. 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 277 

'Uh, nonsense!” cried Minnie. “Do think a little, 
instead of using those silly stock phrases. There’s the 
poor baby. She needs clothes dreadfully. You shouldn’t 
let your pride stand in the way. . . .” 

“They’ll let us know at the proper time. Until they 
do, we can scrape along ” 

“We can’t! I’ve bills everywhere. People are get- 
ting nasty. It’s dreadfully humiliating for me.” 

“Sorry, but there’s nothing to be done,” he repeated, 
frigidly. 

“There is! You could just ask his lawyers to let you 
see the will ” 

“My dear girl, I am not going to go crawling after 
Horace’s money. It’s not decent. I absolutely will 
not !” 

He might have known what would happen after that, 
but he didn’t even suspect. . . . 

Minnie said she was obliged to go to the city, shopping. 
And as she never concerned herself except about domes- 
tic matters, Lionel believed her object to be entirely 
serious and legitimate, and agreed to stop at home with 
the baby while she was gone. He had forgotten she had 
said she had no money, and anyway, he had learned that 
that statement from Minnie was not to be believed. She 
always said that. 

It was a horrible day for him. He didn’t know what 
to do with himself. He sat on the sun scorched little 
porch conscientiously watching his languid child digging 
in the gutter. It seemed to him to spend all its waking 
hours there, busy with some patient work. At noon he 
brought her in and fed her with the lunch Minnie had 
left, then he rocked her to sleep in a hammock, on the 
sweltering porch. 

He wandered about the hot, dirty little house, smoking 
and trying not to think. He did not dare to reflect, he 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


278 

did not wish to face the secret desolation in his soul. 
He valiantly maintained that his life here with Minnie 
was “wholesome,” was “normal,” was really the best 
sort of life. And tried to deny visions of cool seaside 
hotels, or bars where men lounged in flannels and 
drank those amazing and adorable American drinks, with 
ice clinking in them. . . . He almost saw himself on the 
veranda of a country club, with other wdl-dressed peo- 
ple, gay, careless, enviable. 

He strode across the tiny dining room to disperse a 
swarm of flies about an uncovered sugar bowl, and 
jerked down the dark shades, as much to hide the room 
from his own eyes as to quiet the disgusting insects. 
She would leave the cloth on the table all day long, with 
its crumbs and grease spots. 

The baby called him ; he went out and took her out of 
the hammock, poor hot, patient little soul! He washed 
her pale little face, disfigured with mosquito bites, and 
carried her out on the porch again. He held her in his 
lap; she didn’t want to stir, lay against him, staring 
before her. 

Toward five o’clock Minnie came home, pallid and 
limp from the heat, with her black hair escaping in 
wisps from under her crushed little hat. 

“She looks like a char-woman,” he reflected, as he 
watched her coming. 

She flung herself into a chair. 

“Oh, Lionel!” she said, ''what do you think!” 

He asked “What?” without much interest, expecting 
to hear that cotton stockings were so much dearer, or 
some other Minnie news. She pulled a bulky paper out 
of her hand bag. 

“Horace’s will!” she said, “and he hasn’t left you a 
penny. The lawyer told me this is a new one, made only 
a month ago. And that he’d been arranging a trust fund 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 279 

or something of the sort for you — something all tied up, 
so you could only touch the interest — and then, before 
he’d signed anything, he died. Oh, Lionel! Not a 
penny 1” 

IV 

Then, too, he might have foreseen and prevented her 
next step, but again he failed to do so, because it was a 
bit beyond his imagination. She wrote a terrific letter 
to Julie, telling her she was defrauding Lionel of his 
rights, that she knew Horace’s intentions, and ought, if 
she had any feeling of honour, to carry them out. 

Julie replied briefly: 

*‘You won’t get a red cent out of me, now or any other 
time. I’m sorry for Lionel, but he has got to lie in the 
bed he’s made.” 

Lionel didn’t even reproach Minnie for having writ- 
ten. What was the use? His humiliation couldn’t be 
hidden from any one. 

They had a serious situation to confront. They were 
in debt, and they had an income on which they couldn’t 
exist. And Minnie, although she bought the cheapest 
and nastiest of everything, and never spent a penny on 
anything gracious or luxurious, had not the gift of 
stretching a dollar. Her economy was all negative. She 
never thought, ‘‘What is the best I can get with my 
money?” but always, “How little can I spend?” She 
had no idea of values, of proportion. 

The poor thing worried unceasingly, because it was 
her duty to do so; lay awake at night by the side of her 
magnificent and superior husband and planned with des- 
peration. During the day she was cheerful, that also 
being her duty, and tried as she always had tried, to 
make Lionel comfortable. She really loved and admired 
him more than he ever realised. She considered him 


28 o 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


finer than herself; she wanted to spare him, to please 
him, to keep him contented and happy at any cost tc> 
herself. 

He, for his part, was past any worry. He simply 
existed from day to day like a caged animal, absolutely 
without hope, fortitude his only virtue. He endured, she 
struggled. 

In the course of time she evolved a plan. 

She came out on the porch after she had finished her 
laborious work in the kitchen, and sat down at the top 
of the steps, near Lionel’s feet. From either side came 
the nasal voices of their neighbours, silly laughs, and 
the whining cries of tired children. Little Sandra lay 
asleep in the hammock nearby. There was an arc light 
almost opposite; it shone on Minnie’s earnest face and 
Lionel’s unpolished boots. 

“It’s very hot, isn’t it?” she said, rather pitifully. 

“Very,” he agreed. 

There was a long silence. 

“Lionel!” 

Minnie’s voice came out of the dark, fatigued and 
insistent. 

“I’ve been thinking — it’s such a shame for you to be 
wasted this way. ... I saw an advertisement and I 
wrote to it. ... I think it would be just the thing for 
you. Gentlemanly, and yet you could make any amount 
of money.” 

“What is it?” he asked, without much interest. 

“Here’s the booklet.” She began to read in a solemn 
voice, “ 'Be your own master! Read what others have 
done! The Manhattan Institute of Tonic o-Therapy. 
Ten weeks course renders you independent for life. 
Highly paid selected staff instructs in all branches.* And 
it goes on to tell you the theory of it. How all illnesses 
come from the chemical action of poisons in the stom- 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 281 


ach. You learn the antidotes for all these poisons, and 
then how to find which poison is causing the trouble, 
and there you are! I think — it sounds wonderful.’^ 

“What rot! The ordinary fakef' said Lionel impa- 
tiently. 

“And you should read the money the doctors make!’' 

“It’s a swindle, I tell you! There are any number 
of them. The rankest sort of fraud.” 

Then Minnie showed the cloven hoof. 

“What if it is?” she asked, “weVe got to live. It 
wouldn’t do any one any harm. I dare say in lots of 
cases it’s very good ” 

“I don’t intend to be a swindler,” he interrupted, “it’s 
no use talking any more about it. I’m surprised you 
could consider a thing like that.” 

“Very well, then, think of something better.” 

“I couldn’t think of anything much worse.” 

J “You could do it for a little while, and save up ” 

i He jumped up. 

“No!” he cried, angrily. “It’s outrageous! Don’t 
mention it again! There are some things I will not do!” 

But there weren’t! 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 


I 

It was the tragedy of Lionehs life that he so genu- 
inely admired what was honourable, and so persistently 
did what was dishonourable. From good and admirable 
motives always. He was really unselfish; he considered 
the interests of Minnie and Sandra first and foremost, 
and tried, in his imbecile way, to further them. 

So that Minnie was able, in the course of time, to 
make him a student of Tonico-Therapy. He had to 
mortgage his little income for years to come in order to 
pay his tuition fees and to keep them all alive while he 
was preparing. He loathed himself for it, but he 
couldn’t see any other course open to him. 

He went to the Manhattan Institute one morning. It 
was on the fifteenth floor of an office building on upper 
Broadway, a building of dubious repute. He opened a 
door which was marked ‘‘Office,” and was brightly 
greeted by a pretty young woman. He said he had come 
only for information. 

“You’d like to see our place,” she said. “I’ll call one 
of the doctors.” 

She pressed a button, and presently in came a man 
whom she addressed as Doctor Peters. He was prepos- 
terously like a doctor, too, tall, grave, black-bearded, with 
a quite charming manner. He willingly led Lionel about, 
through the four rooms which constituted the “Insti- 
tute.” There was the “laboratory” where one learned 
to compound the “antidotes” ; there were two class rooms, 

282 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 283 

on the walls of which were blackboards and charts, and 
there was a snug little carpeted room which was the 
‘‘office of the Dean and Examining Room.” There were 
pamphlets from which the pupils studied, but they were 
not to be removed from the premises. Upon completing 
the course, the student was given the “Twenty Famous 
Key-Prescriptions,” by means of which every ill could 
be remedied. 

Poor Lionel was impressed. He stealthily scrutinised 
the students already engaged in the course; they were 
well-dressed, quiet fellows, six in all. Doctor Peters 
gave him information regarding them. Two of them 
had been hospital nurses, one was a qualified M. D., one 
a dentist, the other two former “business men.” “A 
good class of men,” the doctor said, “we don^t encourage 
any others.” 

It was all so neat, so bright, so open to inspection. 
And Doctor Peters had nothing of the charlatan in looks 
or manners. He was courteous and very restrained; he 
did not in any way extol the facilities of the Institute 
to Lionel; he treated him as an intelligent layman 
anxious to be informed. If he wished to avail himself 
of these extraordinary advantages, very well. He could 
see for himself what was offered. 

There was in Lionel’s mind nothing inquisitive, noth- 
ing critical. His rules of conduct had been supplied to 
him by persons of authority — persons not unlike Doctor 
Peters. He began to feel that there might be something 
in this thing, after all. 

II 

And he never quite lost that idea. Indeed, he devel- 
oped a faith in Tonico-Therapy which no one — not even 
Minnie or Doctor Peters, suspected. He studied the 
course diligently, trying his utmost to understand and 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


284 

assimilate the farrago of nonsense in the pamphlets. He 
was too ignorant of physiology and chemistry to detect 
some of the grossest blunders, and he really fancied he 
was mastering a sort of profession. 

At the end of the ten weeks he received a diploma and 
a great deal of congratulation and good advice from the 
“Dean,” a white-haired old reprobate with a perpetual 
grin; and went home to Minnie, a full-fledged “Professor 
of Tonico-Therapy.” The “Dean” had suggested that he 
use “Professor” instead of “Doctor.” 

Minnie was wild with delight; she considered their 
fortune made. She had had a sign printed for him 
Lionel Naylor — Professor of Tonico-Therapy/' and it 
was displayed prominently in the sitting room window. 
She also insisted upon an advertisement in one of the 
local papers, an advertisement modelled upon others she 
had read and no doubt admired, and which shocked 
Lionel, yet to which he could offer no reasonable objec- 
tion. “// doctors have not helped you/' it ran, ''why 
not try the Newer Way — Tonico-Therapyf Professor 
Lionel Naylor will see clients between 10 and 12 and 
between 3 and 5. Also by appointment." 

It would be difflcult to find words for Lionel’s terror 
and distress. He showed nothing of it, except that he 
was quite unable to eat, but he sat, professionally con- 
cealed within the house, sick with dread at the idea of a 
patient’s coming. Minnie had arranged the room to 
look as office-like as she could; she had put a big table 
in the centre of it, with a big chair for the professor 
and other chairs ranged about the walls; there was a 
book-case containing second-hand medical books — im- 
posing though not at all consistent with the theory Lionel 
was to maintain ; even books on surgery, which was so 
bitterly denounced in the Tonico-Therapy pamphlets 
under the name of “going under the knife.” 


I THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 285 

He wa^ devoutly thankful that his “system’^ required 
practically no examining; he had simply to record and 
classify the symptoms as told him, and then retire some- 
where to consult his hand-book of Tonico-Therapy, 
which would tell him what the disease was and what the 
remedy. He hoped — he even went so far as to pray — 
that the patients would all be men. 

On the day after the advertisement appeared, his first 
patient came. From the window he saw her mounting 
the steps, and he had a sort of paroxysm of fright. He 
wanted to hide. But Minnie had let her in, and there 
r she was knocking at the door. She was a stout woman 
of forty or so, terribly in earnest. She sat down heavily, 
with a sigh, and began to describe, with great wealth of 
. detail, the “torments” she endured with a “sick stomach.” 

' Her symptoms were extraordinarily complicated and 
diverse; she enumerated all the articles she “dassen’t 
' touch,” and gave another list of dubious ones, which 
! sometimes were harmless and again would be “rank 
poison.” 

“Like lead, those last sweet potatoes lay,” she told 
him mournfully, “right here. Not a wink of sleep did 
I get that night. Just groaning and moaning.” 

Lionel listened in the proper attitude of dignified con- 
rcern; he really felt sorry for the poor thing. And so 
■ afraid he couldn’t help her. Still, he said reassuringly : 
I “Wait here a moment please, while I go into the 

I ' laboratory. I’ll prepare something that will relieve you.” 
(This is what he had planned to say, in order to give 
himself a chance to consult his “handbook.”) 

Minnie was in the dining-room when he entered. 

“Oh, Lionel,” she whispered, excitedly, “does she ” 

“Keep quiet!” he said, very rudely, and began copying 
■ the proper prescription on his little pad. 

I “I find I’ve run out of one of my drugs,” he told his 


286 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


patient, ''but here is a prescription. If you’ll have this 
made up and take a teaspoonful three times a day, it 
will ...” 

"When shall I come again?” 

"Oh, er — next week!” 

She got up with another sigh, and straightened her 
hat. 

"What’s your fee, doctor?” she asked. 

He turned scarlet; the idea of taking money from this 
poor vulgar, suffering soul disgusted him, shamed him. 
And suppose he weren’t helping her at all? 

"Two dollars,” he muttered. 

She laid a limp bill on the table, and went out. 

Ill 

In the next six months he had just seven patients. 
Summer was coming on again, and they hadn’t a penny. 
He himself was shabby and cowed, the little girl was so 
ragged that the neighbours’ children were told to avoid 
her. Minnie was reduced to big aprons. They were 
hungry and wretched, hounded by creditors, suffering 
from the intolerable restraints of poverty. Lionel 
hadn’t even cigarettes. He pulled down the sign and 
went about looking for work again. Without success. 
He was the least desirable sort of worker there was. 
He had little physical strength, no manual ability, a 
faulty and useless education, and an unconsciously 
haughty and repellent manner. He went about exuding 
failure; he was shabby, gloomy and resentful. He knew 
he wasn’t any good. 

At the very end, on the brink of ruin, he did get a job, 
addressing envelopes for a big directory. There he sat, 
hour after hour, writing away, surrounded by a heart- 
breaking collection of human wrecks, men who terrified 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 287 

him by their sinister incarnation of his own future. Old 
men, with broken shoes and no overcoats, with fawning 
smiles and drink-reddened noses, middle-aged men who 
had finished with life, still genteel, but fatally resigned. 

He dallied with the thought of suicide. He couldn’t 
endure life. In his heart he didn’t care what happened 
to Minnie or to his child. They would be no worse off 
without him. He hated to see them. When he got home 
at night, he would not speak to them. He couldn’t eat 
the coarse and ill-cooked food Minnie put before him. 
He couldn’t sleep. He dreamed with sick longing of 
old days, of big, airy rooms, gay little suppers, he re- 
membered his chest of drawers, with piles of clean linen 
and silk socks, his neckties, his boots. This unhappy 
slattern, this pale bit of a child, what had they to do with 
his dreams? They were unreal, didn’t belong to him. 

He lived in a ghastly solitude; he confided in no one, 
was in touch with no one. He believed that the human 
being did not live who could comprehend his anguish. 

Spring came again, and he had become what he so 
feared, a man with broken boots and the air of having 
once been a gentleman. He was ashamed to ride on the 
train, ashamed to enter the lift in the office building, 
ashamed to sit at a lunch counter. He had really made 
up his mind to die, quickly, before he got ill and helpless, 
and had to be sent to a charity hospital. 

He came home one evening as usual, striding down 
the street past all the neighbours with a scowl on his 
face. He went up the steps of his little house with a 
familiar feeling of disgust and fatigue. Minnie was 
nowhere about; he sat down, still with his hat on, and 
stared out of the window at the placid sky which the 
sun had so lately deserted, a clear and faintly luminous 
expanse, without clouds. 

It occurred to him that the house was very still. No 


288 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


sound from the kitchen or overhead. He didn’t care, 
though. He didn’t stir until it was quite dark; then he 
got up to find a match for his wretched cigar. It was 
odd, after all, — no one about, no lights anywhere. His 
indifference was mere bravado now ; he wouldn’t let him- 
self call out . . . 

When at last he did go upstairs he found an envelope 
addressed to himself on his bureau. 

"'My own dearest Lionel: I have gone away for just 
a little while, because I have a plan to help us all. Stay 
where you are, and I shall be able to send you some 
money very soon. Don’t worry; everything will soon 
be all right, and we shall be all together again. Take 
care of yourself, dearest. Your loving, loving wife, 
Minnie. P.S. — There is a delicious meat pie for you in 
the ice box.” 

He read it again, and still it didn’t stir his indif- 
ference. He ate the meat pie, an unusually pretentious 
dish which must have cost Minnie much time and trouble ; 
he sat on the porch for a while and at last went to bed, 
to fall asleep easily. Minnie and Sandra gone? Very 
well; they couldn’t be any worse off anywhere else. 

He waked up just before dawn, with a shock of 
realisation. Minnie lost too! Everything gone! He 
began to think of what the poor little woman had suf- 
fered and endured, of her patience, her loyalty to him. 
He remembered her, working so anxiously, so blindly, 
not questioning, not complaining, trying her poor best 
to give him what comfort she could. 

And she had had nothing. He wondered how in 
Heaven’s name she had lived. He thought of the long 
days she had spent with her poor little child, the child 
she so loved, and whom she had had to see hungry and 
ragged. Her utter loneliness, her pitiful faith in him, 
her hope of finding in him all of life and happiness. 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 289 


IV 

For months he didn’t know where she had gone. She 
wrote to him loyally and sent him money, but she had 
the letters posted in New York, and he could imagine 
no way of tracing her. With the money she sent him 
and what he earned, he managed to keep alive, and he 
stayed on in the miserable little house, as she had told 
him. He was so sunk in wretchedness that he no longer 
suffered. He sometimes had a violent longing for the 
sound of Minnie’s pleasant voice, or to see her solicitous, 
kindly face, but his chief thought, his chief concern was 
his own health. He was ill; he knew it; he had that 
mysterious certainty of imminent danger which has noth- 
ing to do with symptoms. 

Creditors hounded him, until he grew desperate. They 
wouldn’t wait; he couldn’t expect them to; he couldn’t 
very well expect them to have implicit faith in Minnie’s 
vague promise that everything would soon be all right. 
And that was all he could offer. The house was a pig- 
sty, an offense, and he didn’t care. For days at a time 
he didn’t even shave. He used to look at himself in the 
mirror and laugh at the blue stubble on his haggard face, 
his uncut hair, his frayed necktie and dirty collar. 

‘‘Anyway I can’t go any lower,” he would tell him- 
self, “I’m at the bottom !” 

He recalled stories he had read of beach-combers, all 
sorts of derelicts] drifting through strange countries, and 
it occurred to him that they were probably people like 
himself, who had loved fine living, who had been fastidi- 
ous, who couldn’t adjust themselves to what was poor 
and ugly. And they were, he reflected, always saved in 
the end by some woman. Never by a woman in the 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


290 

least like Minnie; always by some splendid, handsome 
creature. Like Frances. 

He put that thought away from him, and that image. 

He was literally driven out of the house. The gas 
was cut off, the telephone, and at last the water. He 
groped about in the dark for a day or two, even went 
to his work unwashed after the taps were empty, but he 
couldn’t endure thirst. He wanted water to drink, lots 
of it. 

He left the house; simply walked out of it and closed 
the door after him. He went to a cheap lodging house 
for men in the city, directed his mail forwarded there, 
and waited on and on. 

He grew very sullen and angry. He wanted to write 
to Minnie, to tell her things, to complain : he cursed her 
infernal secretiveness, and muddle-headedness. Where 
in God’s name was she and what was she trying to do? 

At last, after six months, she wrote that she had a good 
position as housekeeper in Brownsville Landing, but that 
he’d better write her in care of the post-office at Sanasset, 
the next village, for she had “thought best” to call her- 
self a widow. 

He answered sharply that he wished to see her, and 
she’d have to arrange it. A bitter and resentful letter. 

She answered with propitiating quickness, and pro- 
posed a meeting in the little wood. She brought him a 
package of sandwiches and some money, kissed him and 
consoled him and sent him back to New York like a 
baby pacified with a sugar plum. After that, he came 
out regularly every Saturday afternoon, and as regularly 
complained bitterly at the secrecy which appeared to him 
so unnecessary. But Minnie assured him that it was not, 
and entreated him to be patient until she had enough 
money saved to start a new home. 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 291 

He grew more and more ill ; at last she advised him to 
give up his work. 

‘‘I’ll find you a place to board somewhere near,” she 
said, “and you can rest for a few weeks.” 

Under the circumstances, it was extraordinarily diffi- 
cult to find a place for him where there was no possibility 
of his hearing of Mr. Petersen and Mr. Petersen’s house- 
hold. She had to be satisfied with a room in a family 
of Hungarians who spoke very little English and knew 
no one outside of their own colony. They lived three 
miles away, in Sanasset. 

The poor fellow was glad enough to rest, glad, too, to 
get away from the dreadful men’s lodging house in the 
city. Minnie met him every day and brought him things 
to eat, which he took back to his clean, lonely little room 
and consumed with relish. Minnie explained to him 
that the family where she was housekeeper was very 
wasteful, very capricious. 

“You might just as well have this,” she would say, 
“Otherwise it would only be thrown away.” 

Naturally he was not altogether happy in such an 
existence, living on his wife’s earnings, taking money 
from her even for his cigarettes, fed with the munificent 
scraps from her employer’s table. He had nothing to 
do, no living soul to speak to, he was ill and growing no 
better. But he wasn’t anything like so miserable as one 
might imagine. His feelings were all dull, torpid; he 
really didn’t think at all. He was forced — literally forced 
by nature to lie quiescent, to rest. 

He was, in a way, beginning to be healed of his terrible 
moral wounds in this solitude and idleness he so needed. 
He was not under the influence of anyone now; he was 
little by little going back to his old traditions. 

And then came Minnie’s note ; exactly what the 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


292 

familiar phrase calls a “bolt from the blue/' a dazzling 
and awful blow. 

“Dearest Lionel: For reasons which I will explain 
when I see you, I have thought best to call myself Mr. 
Petersen’s wife. I want you to come back with him and 
I will explain everything. He thinks you are my brother, 
named Alec. Don’t say anything to him, but wait until 
you have seen me. I am very ill. I cannot write any 
more. Minnie.” 

Even then he hadn’t been much impressed ; he did not 
realise what her words implied. Simply another piece 
of her tiresome chicanery; posing as someone’s wife to 
make herself more important, or something of that sort. 
Treachery to himself he never suspected, or that she 
could possibly be actually guilty of bigamy. . . . Until 
Mr. Petersen told him of the baby that was expected. 
Minnie was to be the mother of another man’s child! 

Oh, even she couldn’t explain that away, couldn’t make 
him swallow that! He might be contemptible, a tool in 
her hands, but there was a limit, an end! He walked 
beside the innocent other man in the dark, smiling grimly 
to himself, filled with a curiously impersonal thirst for 
revenge. That woman must be exposed, disgraced, 
crushed. He was savagely delighted to do it. A long 
repressed and unrecognised wish came struggling to the 
surface of his mind, the wish to be free of her and her 
domination. So long as she loved him and was faithful 
to him, worked and schemed for him, he couldn’t even 
wish to be rid of her. Only falseness in her could justify 
him, and he rejoiced now in finding her false. 

“IPs the end of her," he reflected, “of her and her 
beastly trickery !" 

But it was not. When he got to the house, and ac- 
tually saw her, ill, tortured with anxiety, when he once 
more heard her voice, his resolution failed him. It was 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 293 

not so much through pity or affection, either; it was the 
woman’s uncanny plausibility, the preposterous air of 
respectability she threw over all she did. He could not 
see her as a criminal. 

Fate had reserved curious sufferings for him, unique 
pains. To live through that night, with honest Mr. Peter- 
sen, to be in his house, while Minnie bore his child. . . . 
And then, still at Mr. Petersen’s side, to go in to her, and 
look at her son. . . . 

He was in a state of utter chaos. His little girl didn’t 
know him. In a year and a half she had quite forgotten 
him, was growing up contentedly under another man’s 
roof. It hurt him beyond measure. He had no idea 
how he had changed, what with his beard, and the ravages 
of his illness. It gave him a sensation of being already 
dead and buried and forgotten. 

He couldn’t make himself feel as he believed he should 
feel. He could not hate Minnie, and he actually liked 
Mr. Petersen. And pitied them both. He thought, more 
seriously than he had ever thought before in his life, and 
came to a conclusion which was quite at variance with 
his tradition. 

1 ‘Tm no good to Minnie or Sandra,” he said to him- 
self. ‘T’ll go away, and leave them to the man who can 
I take care of them.” 

And above all, he wished to consider Mr. Petersen. He 
I was more anxious to spare him than to spare Minnie. His 
j one comfort was that he was not “wronging” that honest 
! man, that he was, in fact, making an honourable and 
1 terribly difficult sacrifice for him, in thus giving up to 
I him not only Minnie but little Sandra. He would leave 
j Mr. Petersen undisturbed in his fool’s Paradise. He 

I wanted passionately, with all his soul, to do this one 

! decent thing, to atone for Minnie’s sins and his own by 
this restitution. It saved him in his own eyes. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


294 

Minnie did not oppose him. But she begged him to 
wait until she was a little better. She was so heart- 
broken over the separation and so docile that he yielded, 
and waited there in Mr. Petersen’s house during the days 
of her convalescence. 

But, no sooner had she begun to grow well again than 
she began shamelessly to — as the novels say — persecute 
him with her attentions. He was immeasurably shocked ; 
he told her plainly what he thought of such conduct. 
Under Mr. Petersen’s very roof! 

‘'But you’re my own husband,” said Minnie. 

“Do you mean to say you’re so depraved that you 
can’t see? That you’d deceive that fine fellow again?” 

“He’s nothing to me,” said Minnie, “I never even pre- 
tended to love him.” 

And added : 

“I only did it for Sandra’s sake.” 

“Didn’t you know it was criminal? You’re a bigamist. 
You ” 

She began to cry. 

“I know it! But a mother will do anything in the 
world for her child. If she’s a true woman.” 

She was not to be convinced of wrong-doing. It 
wasn’t nice to have two husbands ; that she conceded : it 
was a painful and disagreeable necessity, her only means 
of providing for her child. 

“And Chris never need know,” she said. “It’s not 
doing him any harm. In fact, he’s very happy.” 

“Then you intend to go on like this forever?” 

“Oh, I don’t know!” she cried, impatiently, “one has to 
be guided by circumstances.” 

And they were all the guide she had. Or could they 
be called a guide, when she so deliberately manufactured 
them, and distorted them? Even the poor chap’s love 
for Sandra she tried to utilise, in order to keep him near 


THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL 295 

her. She was continually throwing them together, foster- 
ing the child’s affection for her “uncle.” 

“She didn’t recognise you,” she said. “Poor little 
baby! But she knows you. She feels differently to- 
ward you.” 

She was conscious that her own spell had waned; she 
could do nothing with him. No matter how she clung 
to him, how she implored him, he would not so much 
as say he loved her. He was absolutely impervious to 
her seductions, although he was touched by her blind 
love for him. She would have caused any suffering to 
Mr. Petersen if it would have benefited Lionel. He was, 
as she said, and he well knew, the only man she had 
ever cared for, the first and the last. She would even 
go SO far as to admit that she regretted having been 
obliged to marry Mr. Petersen. Not because it was 
wrong, but because it hurt Lionel. She acknowledged 
that it had not been an altogether loyal act, although, like 
so very many of her sex, she couldn’t see that a merely 
physical infidelity really mattered much. An idea that 
men have, which must be submitted to, because of its 
importance to them. 

“But in my heart/' she insisted, “there’s never been 
anyone but you.” 

The war seemed to offer Lionel a remarkable oppor- 
tunity for carrying out his plan with dignity and nobility. 
He might even get himself killed, which, according to 
his tradition, rights every wrong, wipes out every of- 
i fense. He resisted Minnie’s objections with firmness. 

: Then, so cruelly, before he had made his great re- 

; nunciation, came Frances and the shameful and horrible 
; revelation. He was forced to go away with Minnie ; he 
I couldn’t desert her then, when she was so utterly alone. 

I He tried to comfort her a little, and found it only too 
[ easy. She wasn’t really very much ashamed or grieved. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


296 

She was willing, eager, to take up life with him again, 
the same slipshod and futile life of their former years. 
She looked forward happily to another little house, more 
amazing financial adventures, and, quite frankly, a 
subsidy from Mr. Petersen. 

‘‘He’d be gladT she told Lionel, “On account of little 
Robert. And he has plenty of money. He could easily 
spare two or three thousand a year.” 

That was the final straw. Lionel said nothing against 
her scheme; he saw her decently settled in a respectable 
boarding-house, well-supplied with money salvaged from 
Mr. Petersen’s housekeeping allowance; then he went 
away, disappeared. He left her a note, to say that he 
was going to enlist, but she never quite ktiew what be- 
came of him. 


BOOK FIVE: THE VICTORIOUS 
CONCLUSION 


• • i' 




•) 





1 


/ 


i 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 


I 

Mr. Petersen and Frances lingered at the table long 
after the meal was finished. Partly from fatigue, partly 
from embarrassment, neither of them cared to suggest 
getting up. For how were they to spend the evening? 
They couldn’t sit down and read, as if nothing had hap- 
pened, and certainly they couldn’t talk. They would both 
have been delighted never to exchange another word. 

There was an unusual air of peace and order. Sandra 
and the baby were in bed and asleep, wisely and lovingly 
managed by Frances. Mr. Petersen had gone up to look 
at them in their cribs, clean, quiet and happy. Mrs. 
Hansen was working away, without friction. 

Yet it was an ominous quiet. There had been no 
“scene,” no excitement. Simply Minnie had packed a 
bag and gone olf in scornful silence, and Lionel had 
vanished. It would have been far better if there had 
been a scene ; no matter how violent or disgraceful. The 
roused emotions were cheated, there was an exasperating 
lack of finality about it all, a sense of frustration. Mr. 
Petersen and Frances had not opened the subject at all. 
Mrs. Hansen of course was silent. Even Sandra had 
asked no questions. It wasn’t natural! 

Mr. Petersen had good reasons for his reticence. He 
was ashamed of his thoughts; he would not have divulged 
them to any living creature. Because he was longing and 
longing for Minnie, for the old turmoil and disorder, 
Sandra running round the table while he ate, for Minnie, 
299 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


300 

holding the crying baby on her lap and feeding it sugar 
and water from a spoon, Minnie in a wrapper, with her 
hair coming down, and her eternally anxious look, worn 
out after having accomplished nothing. 

He was aware of Frances opposite him, beautiful, 
severely neat, in her starched blouse. He knew she was 
much better than Minnie, that she had been cruelly 
wronged, and was behaving nobly. And yet he felt no 
sympathy for her. All his pity was ridiculously, futilely 
given to Minnie. He did not even blame her. The 
upright, honourable Mr. Petersen was able to see the 
thing from her distorted angle; he could almost hear 
her saying: 

‘‘But I tried to do what seemed best at the time.'’ 

No anger, no bitterness, only a great sense of bereave- 
ment and grief. He actually sat there worrying about 
her, thinking she had no money, afraid she would suffer 
without her children. . . . That poor tiny Viking, 
replica of himself, left now without a mother ! And poor, 
poor mother, bereft of such a son ! 

II 

Frankie’s thoughts were altogether different. She was 
angry, burning with resentment against her sister. She 
hated her! She remembered Lionel’s dreadful face when 
he had seen her, the shame and anguish in his eyes. Oh, 
she hated her! The man he might have been, and the 
thing Minnie had made of him! 

She had as little sympathy for Mr. Petersen as he 
for her. Simply he didn’t matter. When she looked at 
his stolid face, she felt that it wouldn’t be hard to hate 
him, too. 

What Lionel must have endured to force him into such 
a course ! Living in Mr. Petersen’s house, on Mr. Peter- 


THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION 301 

sen's bounty, seeing his wife living with Mr. Petersen, 
bearing his child! A feeling she didn’t know was in her 
came rushing up; a longing to see Minnie suffer, even a 
little of what she had inflicted upon others. She couldn’t 
stand Mr. Petersen’s presence another moment — silly 
sheep — fatuous dupe of a vile woman! 

She got up abruptly. 

“I think I’ll go upstairs to the children,” she said. 
‘‘Good-night!” 

They were sleeping beautifully. She lighted a little 
night lamp and looked at them, these children of Minnie, 
with curiously mixed emotions. She bent over the baby ; 
its fat little cheeks were puffed out, its earnest mouth 
closed in a sort of pout. An ineffable fragrance rose 
from the warm little body. Her breath stirred the fine 
fair hairs on its head, where the pulse still beat so piti- 
fully. Child of that hated sister and that fool of a 
Petersen — ^but a baby none the less^ and sacred and dear. 
She regarded it with love, she pitied the poor deserted 
little man. She touched the tiny clenched fist, and at 
once it seized upon her finger and clung to it blindly. 
Very gently she unclasped the absurd little fingers and 
went over to Sandra. 

This was the child that should have been hers ; Lionel’s 

daughter. The baby was delightful, but Sandra ! 

She was a dream child, she was beauty in its purest, most 
exquisite moment. Her pale face, her clear features, her 
cloud of fine-spun hair, the slender grace of her little 
limbs, were, Frances thought, like some child angel in 
an old painting, altogether spiritual. She sat down be- 
side her, to think. It helped her to look down at that 
innocent and fragile loveliness, sublimation of her poor 
lover. She grew softer; at last began to weep a little. 

Very much later, toward two in the morning, she went 


302 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

down to find Mr. Petersen. She was quite sure he would 
not be in bed. 

There he was, in his study, reading something. 

“Mr. Petersen,’' she said, “I’ve been thinking — about 
the children.” 

He looked at her mutely. 

“It seems to me — if you’d like me to — it would be 
better if I stopped here and looked after them.” 

“I thought you were going abroad,” he said, stupidly. 

“I don’t care much where I go, as long as I’m more or 
less useful. And it seems to me that I could be, here.” 

He couldn’t answer. 

“I’d like How can I help you best about them?” 

she asked. 

He still stared at her in speechless misery. He tried 
in vain to picture his future life, tried to realise that he 
was left with two small children who had no mother. 
Useless. He could imagine no other person in Minnie’s 
place. No one but Minnie looking after those children; 
anyone else would be an impostor, a fraud, intolerable. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “I haven’t thought much about 
it yet.” 

“I’d do my best for them,” Frances said, with somer 
thing like entreaty in her voice. 

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Petersen, “they may take away 
Sandra.” 

And to his horror, a sob escaped him. He could not 
endure the idea of losing that beloved little girl; he 
fancied her gone, and his own poor baby more solitary 
than ever. Like a flash came the full realisation of the 
wreck of his life, the desolation ahead of him. He 
bowed his head in his huge hands. 

, Frances came over to him. 

“Please!” she said, “Mr. Petersen!” 


THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION 303 

It was the first time she had felt any pity for him ; she 
had pitied Lionel, pitied herself ; now her heart was 
wrung for this poor fellow, innocent as herself, and 
more wronged. 

‘^Anyway,’’ she said, ‘^you have your little boy.” 

‘That makes it worse,” he answered, in a muffled voice. 
“He is an illegitimate child. He is disgraced.” 

“Oh, you don’t believe such things!” cried Frances. 
“You’re far too sensible and broad-minded for that, I 
know!” 

“No, no. I’m not. ... If it was the ordinary thing — 
a passion — a love affair. . . . But she — lived here as 
my wife. . . . Everyone knew her.” 

He raised his head and looked at her with honest, 
misty, blue eyes. 

“What am I to say? Bigamy is a crime. She is a 
bigamist. I’ve got to keep it quiet. We were married 
here; it’s in the register. ... I cannot tell anyone she 
was not my wife. I’ll have to let it be thought that she 
deserted me^ — ran off with this — this chap we called her 
brother. I’ll be the laughing stock of the place. Under 
his nose it went on, the neighbours will say. And I was 
a fool. Such a fool! I can’t believe it ... ! My boy 
is going to hear all that in the course of time.” 

“Can’t you leave here?” 

“I’ve built up my name and reputation here. At my 
age — to start all over again. ...” 

“I’m very sorry,” she said simply. 

“Thank you,” he replied. 

She could see that he wanted to be alone, and that he 
was not able to think then of the future. He was too 
bitterly concerned with the past and with the present. 
She said good-night to him, and went upstairs again, to 
be near the children. 


304 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


III 

She was awakening next morning by a cry from the 
baby, and she sprang up at once, to wait on it, to adore 
it, to serve it in any capacity. 

She hurried down stairs to the ice box to fetch the 
bottle she had prepared overnight for it, warmed it, and 
flew up again to quiet its hearty cries. But it stopped 
directly she entered the room, and lay on her lap, swal- 
lowing the milk and staring at her, with its father’s great, 
solemn blue eyes. It didn’t cry again all morning; it 
was a baby of a happy and serene disposition. She put 
it back in its crib and it lay there, watching its own fat 
hands, while she dressed Sandra. The little girl was 
very quiet and docile, she fetched her own clean clothes 
and stood passively to have them buttoned. Just once, 
while her hair was being brushed, she looked up with 
her clear unfaltering gaze, and asked: 

‘Where’s Mother?” 

“She’s gone away for a while, my darling. You’ll be 
happy with Aunt Frankie, won’t you?” 

‘T don’t know,” Sandra answered, truthfully. 

It was still very early, so Frances got breakfast ready 
without waiting for Mrs. Hansen. Mr. Petersen came 
down at seven, and he was mighty glad to get his hot 
coffee. He sat down heavily opposite Frances, and 
drained his cup. 

“If you could stay,” he began, apologetically, “just a 
few days, anyway — just a little while — till I get settled? 
I wasn’t — I didn’t appreciate your goodness last night. 
But I do now. Just for a day or two?” 

“As long as you like,” Frances answered, heartily. 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 


I 

The time went by well enough for Frankie. She was 
busy, and after a fashion, happy, with the children. She 
had long ago trained herself not to search her own heart, 
not to indulge her own emotions, not to think of Lionel. 
No more now than during all the past five years. 

With the assistance of Mrs. Hansen she put the house 
in order, all the queer, jumbled cupboards and closets and 
bureau drawers. They found the most extraordinary 
things. They were obliged to tell Mr. Petersen that 
Minnie had been in debt to half a dozen tradesmen, 
enormous bills that she would reduce dollar by dollar. 
He paid them at once, without question. They found 
clothes of Mr. Petersen’s hidden away — no doubt to be 
given to Lionel. They found pawn-tickets for some of 
the silver spoons. Curious records of a subterranean life. 

. . . But at last they cleaned away all traces of her rule ; 
her clothes and personal belongings were packed away, 
until she should send for them; she was sternly and 
justly effaced. 

Frances had begun to recover, to become inwardly as 
serene as she was in appearance. When suddenly her 
makeshift peace was again destroyed. 

They were at lunch, Frances, Mr. Petersen and Sandra, 
an exemplary group, almost too decorous, all consuming 
exactly the right sort of food for their health, served at 
the right moment. Then Mrs. Hansen brought in his 
letter, and without thinking, Frankie tore it open, and 
305 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


306 

saw his writing again. She folded it again and sat 
through the meal ; so very long before she could shut her- 
self into her own room, and read it. 

“Frankie: I can’t get into the army in any branch. 
I got one of the doctors to tell me, and he said I had 
tuberculosis and couldn’t last more than a year or two 
at the most. Frankie, I can’t do it. What’s the use, any- 
way, of waiting on like that, and dying in a charity hos- 
pital ? I’m going to go now, as decently as I can. Don’t 
tell them, not even where I am. I want to be left in 
peace. But I wish you would come after it is all over. 
I will leave you a note. Good-bye. God bless you, dear 
old girl. L.” 

She hurried to him. She found him in a little base- 
ment room like a cell, below the level of the street, with 
a barred window looking out on a filthy courtyard. She 
had steeled herself for this meeting; she was prepared 
for anything; she didn’t wince, didn’t falter, at the sight 
of his ghastly face. He stood before her in the dim 
light, a gaunt, stooping figure in a frayed suit ; he looked 
really frightened at the sight of her. He had said good- 
bye to her forever in his own soul; he wasn’t prepared, 
wasn’t capable of seeing her again. 

He tried to tell her something of his story; especially 
he insisted upon how he hadn’t “wronged’’ Mr. Petersen. 
He was very earnest about that. 

“I don’t want you to think me worse than I am,” he 
said. 

“My dear, I wouldn’t,” she assured him, gently. 

He stared at her with his great hollow eyes. 

“Frankie!” he cried, “You do understand, don’t you? 
That it was — I don’t know — a mistake of some sort. I 
can say it now. I always — loved you. Always. Never 
anyone else.” 


THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION 307 

She had a chill dread of what she felt he was about 
to ask her. 

‘‘If you could say — even a word ?” 

She got up and went to him as he sat hunched up on 
a trunk; she stroked his hair very gently. She wanted 
terribly to give him some little comfort, but she couldn’t 
feed him with lies, even though he were starving. 

“It’s all over and done with now, Lionel,” she said. 
“It’s better to try and forget it.” 

“But, Frankie. ... If I could only know. ... If 
you’d changed. ... If you still care for me?” 

“It’s no use talking of that, my dear.” 

“Only tell me, before I die!” he entreated. 

She looked up at him sorrowfully. And suddenly he 
clasped her in his arms, such a pitiful, desperate embrace! 
She clung to him, sobbing, strained him to her. 

“Oh, I did, I did love you !” her heart cried. “When 
it was you. But not this ghost — this distortion of what 
was you!” 

But she didn’t say it, didn’t say anything, she was too 
full of an aching and dreadful pity. Nothing on earth 
could save him ; she saw death in his face ; she knew that 
she was saying good-bye to him forever. He knew it, 
too. Ineffable moment! There were no words for it; 
they clung to each other, hopelessly, in an abandon of 
grief. 

II 

She persuaded him to go to a sanitarium she knew of ; 
he didn’t want to, didn’t want to linger on, at her ex- 
pense. But for her sake, for the sake of her anguish, he 
consented. He lived there nearly six months, writing 
to her now and then, stiff, stupid little notes. He died 
rather suddenly. 

She never again mentioned him to a living soul; no 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


308 

one else knew what had happened to him. She let him 
die in peace, rest in peace. She went on just as usual; it 
was her pride to keep her pain to herself, to hide it 
absolutely. She never forgot him ; really remained faith- 
ful to that pitiful wraith. She had duties, interests, even 
pleasures enough, she lived vigorously and fully. But 
that wound never healed. She was never again con- 
scious of absolute content, or of real hope. She never 
regarded the future with eagerness. Her heart was not 
whole. 

Ill 

Mr. Petersen was becoming crushed by his disgrace. 
The amazing change of mistresses in his establishment 
had caused a tremendous scandal. He tried to go on as 
usual, but it was not possible. Many people shunned 
him, business fell off, the general atmosphere of respect 
in which his soul had flourished was poisoned, and unfit 
for his great lungs to breathe. 

And, what is more, he worried very much about 
Frankie. The presence of this handsome young woman 
in his house, coincident with the disappearance of Minnie 
and Lionel, was a fact of ugly significance. He began 
very soon to see his course; he deliberated carefully, 
looked at it from her point of view as well as from his 
own, and came at last to the conclusion that it was a good 
plan. 

He asked Frances to marry him. 

‘'On account of the children,” he said, “You are so 
fond of them that I thought you would like to remain 
with them permanently. And it would be of the greatest 
benefit to them. ... As for yourself, I haven't much 
to offer. ... I can only promise that I wouldn't bother 
you, interfere with you in any sort of way. I can't stop 
liere. I'm — ^more or less — disgraced. . . . I'll live 


THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION 309 

wherever you like, California, if that’s best for your 
work. I have enough capital to start In business 
again ” 

She was not surprised by his offer ; she had expected it 
and thought about it. To her also it seemed the best 
course, on account of the children. So she accepted. 

They understood each other perfectly, without being 
obliged to drag from their souls any explanation of feel- 
ings sacred and painful. These two candid and faithful 
creatures knew themselves to be strong enough and simple 
enough for a most difficult situation. They were tacitly 
agreed to remain constant, he to Minnie, she to Lionel, 
and to assume the poor little burdens deserted by them. 

Frances was not anxious to return to California; she 
suggested a suburb of New York, in quite another direc- 
tion from Brownsville Landing, and Mr. Petersen con- 
sented. She found a charming house there, the sort of 
house she had dreamed long ago of having with Lionel, 
a dignified, cheerful place with a fine garden. She had 
quite a bit of money saved, and she insisted upon using 
some of it to equip the place. 

“Please don’t be proud!” she entreated Mr. Petersen, 
laughing. “Do let me have my own way about all this. 
I’ve always longed to furnish a house.” 

This touched him. The poor defrauded girl! So he 
left it all to her. 

She had a wonderful time over it, particularly with 
the children’s rooms. She was wilfully extravagant 
there. She had a nurseryTor little Robert, very scientific 
and expensive, with a bathroom off it, glitteringly white. 
Then a big, bright playroom, with little white-painted 
chairs and tables gay with painted birds and animals, 
with low shelves for toys, and not a sharp corner any- 
where about; and next to this, an exquisite nest for 
Sandra, all white willow and blue chintz. 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


310 

She spent days and days in the house, with Mrs. Han- 
sen to help her. She would come back to Brownsville 
Landing — a five hours’ journey — very tired, but filled 
with enthusiasm. Mr. Petersen went out once or twice 
and found it charming. He planted a garden there, fruit 
trees and rose bushes, and had a stable built for his 
beloved horse. 

When at last the house was ready there was nothing 
else to wait for. They went, one gay, cool morning in 
September, to the City Hall in New York, got their 
license, and were married by a peevish alderman. They 
were both curiously devoid of emotion. It was, after 
all, a matter of little importance to them. They would 
go on as they had been going for the last months. 

Nevertheless, they considered it the polite and the 
correct thing to celebrate in some sort of way. So they 
went to a hotel, where Mr. Petersen ordered an elaborate 
lunch. He was just a little ill-at-ease, not being a fre- 
quenter of hotels, and the lunch was too heavy, too pro- 
longed. Frankie conscientiously ate all she could, and 
praised everything. 

But no use denying that her heart ached ! She caught 
a glimpse of themselves in a mirror, saw her own proud 
distinction so incongruously escorted by Mr. Petersen’s 
enormous Socialistic bulk, and how could she help think- 
ing of how Lionel had looked under similar circum** 
stances, how help remembering his ways of ordering 
lunches. . . . ? 

Perhaps Mr. Petersen was rather heavy-hearted too, 
with memories of his other wedding — or what he had 
imagined at the time to be a wedding. Who knows but 
that for him there had been infinite romance in his 
dowdy Minnie? 

They had planned to go back to Brownsville Landing 
and close up the house there, and then the next mom- 


THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION 31 1 

ing proceed by motor car with the children and the Han- 
sens to the new home. For the last time they boarded 
the train, for the last time went flying through that 
familiar country along the river bank. 

“I suppose,'' said Mr. Petersen, in his slow way, “that 
we are beginning a new life. I shall do all I can to 
make it a happy one for you." 

She smiled at him kindly. 

“We’re old friends," she said, and then grew very 
serious, “Chris," she said, “we’ve missed — oh, almost 
everything, haven’t we? But if we can only make up to 
the children for all they've lost, all they'll have to miss — 
that's enough for us, isn't it?" 

“That's enough," he repeated, “enough to fill our 
lives." 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 


I 

She came in upon them like a whirlwind, as they sat 
at the dinner table, and at the sight of their familiar 
faces, she gave a sort of sob of relief, and flung her- 
self into a chair. They looked at her, pulling off her 
torn old gloves, and they had, both of them, an illusion 
that it was entirely her house, her home, that they had 
nothing to say in it. 

Her face was pale and worn, and bright with hysterical 
excitement. It didn’t occur to her that she was expected 
to explain her presence; she was preoccupied with some 
thought of her own. Suddenly she looked up, at Frances. 

“He’s gone!” she cried. “He would go. Into the 

army. I thought ” she broke into open sobbing, “I 

thought ... he was . . . too thin . . . but he left me 
a note ... to say they’ve taken him. Oh, poor old 
Lionel! Poor old darling!” 

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. 

“It’s so terribly pitiful!” she went on. “I never . . . 
in all my life. . . . Oh, his arms are like little sticks. . . P 

She turned fiercely on Mr. Petersen. 

“The idea of his being in the army, while you sit at 
home, a big, hearty thing like you!” she cried, passion- 
ately. It was the same spirit which led so many women 
to press recruiting. 

Mr. Petersen’s face turned scarlet. He cleared his 
throat, and answered at last, in his slow way: 

“I don’t see ” he began. 

313 


THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION 313 

Of course you don^t! You never would. You 
haven t any spirit in you. You just want to sit at home 
and ” 

Frances intervened. 

I don’t think it’s quite your place to come here and 
abuse Mr. Petersen,” she said sternly. 

“What have you got to do with it?” asked Minnie, 
“it’s none of your business, that I can see.” 

She dried her eyes and sat up straighter. 

“Where are the babies?” she asked. 

“Asleep,” Frances answered. 

Minnie got up and went toward the door, but Frances 
intercepted her. 

“Let them alone!” she ordered. 

Minnie stared at her. 

“What do you mean! They’re my children.” 

“They’re not! You’ve forfeited your right to them. 
You deserted them. You’ve disgraced them. I won’t 
... I won’t let you disturb them !” 

Minnie’s fine black eyes stared at her scornfully. 

“They’re my children. I’ll do just as I think best about 
them. I’ve got on very well without consulting you so 
far, and I shan’t begin now.” 

“Chris!” Frances appealed to Mr. Petersen, “Won’t 
you say something? You know she’s not fit to bring 
up children.” 

“It takes an old maid to do that,” said Minnie. 

That roused Mr. Petersen. 

“Minnie,” he began, “it would be better — if you would 
consent ...” 

“I won’t consent to anything! I want my children, 
and I will have them. I’m going to take them now.” 

“But — I have something to say about it,” he pro- 
tested. 

“You haven’t! Sandra’s not yours, and little Rob- 


314 INVINCIBLE MINNIE 

ert’s mine. I asked a lawyer. You’re not my husband. 
You haven’t any claim on him.” 

Frances rose. 

“Minnie,” she said, “listen to me!” 

She looked like the goddess Athene, so handsome, so 
stem, so just. 

“You must have some sort of conscience — some stand- 
ard — something I can appeal to. . . . You’ve wronged 
me, you’ve wronged Mr. Petersen, in the cruelest way. 
You’ve brought shame and suffering on innocent people. 
You’ve thought only of yourself and your own desires, 
and had no mercy on anyone who stood in your way. 
And now you want to do something still worse. Just 
for your own selfish gratification, you want to take those 
poor little children away from people who are able and 
willing to do everything for them — honourable and de- 
cent people ” 

“I suppose you mean yourself,” said Minnie, “I sup- 
pose you and Chris intended to start housekeeping with 
my children. Well, you can’t!” 

“If you love them, Minnie, you can’t drag them into 
poverty and ” 

“Oh, love, love, love !” cried Minnie impatiently. 
“What do you know about loving, anyway? When I 
love people, I fight for them. I’d die for them. ... Or 
I’d murder. I’d do anything. I wouldn’t stop to reason 
and plan like you do. You couldn’t keep my babies 
away from me if you had an army of soldiers to help 
you.” 

And she pushed by her sister and went upstairs. 

They heard a sudden wild little shout. 

“Oh, Mummy!'* from Sandra. Then a number of 
sounds, Minnie walking about, opening bureau drawers, 
the creak of a rocking chair. 

It tortured Mr. Petersen, brought back old days. He 


THE VICTORIOUS CONCLUSION 315 

felt that if he went up now he would see Minnie in her 
horrible grey wrapper, with the baby in her arms, rock- 
ing away, just in the same way, with the gas turned low 
and Sandra sitting up in her crib. And then, when the 
baby was asleep, Minnie would come down, exhausted, 
sighing, but smiling too, and trail out into the kitchen, 
to look in the ice chest for something to eat. And then 
to sit on the arm of his chair and gossip. . . . He could 
not repress a groan. 

“Oh, Minnie!’' he whispered. 

Frances looked at him with a pity not untinged with 
contempt. She knew he wasn’t thinking of the children 
at all. 

“Chris!” she said, in a low voice. 

“Yes?” 

*‘Don't tell her — that we’re married!” 

He nodded assent. 

They remained at the table, in silence. There was 
nothing to do, nothing to say, but to wait for Minnie’s 
next move. 

Presently she came downstairs, carrying the baby and 
holding Sandra by the hand, all of them dressed for the 
street. Minnie’s eyes were red; evidently she had been 
crying up there. 

“Good-bye, Chris,” she said, rather wistfully, “I’m 
sorry about all this. . . . But I had to do it, really, for 
Sandra’s sake. And I did make you happy, and com- 
fortable, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, yes!” he cried, and actually believed that she 
had. The pathos of the anxious little figure over- 
whelmed him. 

“Minnie!” he cried. “Wait! Just a minute!” 

She turned again. 

“If — your — he has gone in to the army — what will you 
have to live on?” 


INVINCIBLE MINNIE 


3i6 

“I don’t know,” she said, ‘‘I’ll get on somehow.” 

'*No! . . . That can’t be. . . . For old times’ sake — 
let me help you — and the children. An allowance — a 
settlement of some sort ...” 

Her eyes filled with tears. 

“Thank you, Chris dear,” she said, simply. 

“If Frances will take the baby,” he suggested, “I’d like 
to speak to you in my office just a moment.” 

So Frances sat in the dining-room, with the baby in 
her arms for the last time, holding Sandra’s little hand, 
forgotten and deserted, despoiled now of everything, 
while in the study Mr. Petersen wrote a generous cheque 
for Minnie. 

She thought of the house in the suburbs, with the 
nursery and the playroom; even the new toys. 

She thought of herself and Mr. Petersen married, for 
the sake of the children. 

She thought of Minnie, who had carried off Lionel, 
and Lionel’s child, and Mr. Petersen’s child, and was 
now securing a supply of Mr. Petersen’s money. 

She began to laugh heartily. 


THE END 


EPILOGUE 


Mr. Petersen saw Minnie once again. He and Fran- 
ces did go to California to live, because they naturally 
couldn^t endure the mocking house in the suburbs, or the 
dreadful one in Brownsville Landing. 

They did well enough; they were both able to make 
money and to save it; they were kind, industrious, 
charitable, very much respected. They never quarrelled, 
and never grew any more intimate or affectionate. A 
drab sort of life, and they knew it. 

It was a good thing that Mr. Petersen was both thrifty 
and well-to-do, for Minnie’s demands on him were con- 
stant and outrageous. Her old obsession broke out again ; 
she wrote asking for capital to start a boarding-house. 
The allowance he sent her didn’t suffice; she wanted, so 
she said, to become independent. 

And did, in a most original way. All the money she 
took in from her boarders she regarded as profit, and 
belonging to her, while the bills, when they grew too 
pressing, were sent to Mr. Petersen with complicated 
and aggrieved letters complaining of the troubles of a 
landlady. Her independence was a heavy drain on him. 

He asked Frances if she minded his going East to see 
her and the children once more. 

‘Tt’s ten years,” he said. ‘‘Robert’ll be quite a boy 
now.” 

'^Of course I don’t mind,” she answered, ‘T’d half like 
to see them myself ; especially Minnie. I’m curious.” 

Her boarding-house, so familiar to him financially, for 
317 


EPILOGUE 


318 

which he was endlessly buying saucepans and tablecloths 
and towels, was a dingy old place in the west Twenties. 
Even from the outside it had the Minnie touch, 
bedraggled lace curtains and crooked shades. 

He rang the bell, and waited with a fast beating heart. 
To see Minnie again, after all this time ! 

The door was opened reluctantly by a young girl. 
(Everything in that house was done reluctantly). 

‘'Mrs. Naylor? Til see ... Is it about rooms?” 

Surely that voice, that accent . . . ? He stared at her 
insistently in the darkness of the hall. 

“Why!” he cried, “Isn’t it Sandra? Come into the 
light, my dear. Do you remember Uncle Chris?” 

“Tve heard Mother speak of you,” she answered list- 
lessly, and turned up the gas. 

“Oh, Sandra !” he cried again. “My dear . . . ! 
YouTe — you don’t look very well !” 

“I’m all right,” she replied, in languid surprise. “Tve 
always been thin.” 

“Thin!” he thought. “My child, you’re dying!” 

But he said only that she was growing too fast, and 
smiled and patted her head. 

He waited in the dark hall while she went to fetch 
her mother, and he was haunted by her awful and heart- 
breaking loveliness — the unmistakable shadow on her 
face. 

She came back to lead him down into the basement. 
He noticed that there were holes in her stockings and 
that her dress was very shabby. 

In the basement dining-room he found Minnie, and 
was welcomed without much cordiality. And if Sandra 
had shocked him in one way, Minnie shocked him ki an- 
other. She was so much changed; so much older, she 
had quite a middle-aged look, she was much stouter, she 
was — he couldn’t deny it — she was almost common, with 


EPILOGUE 


319 

her bright eyes and her sharp nose and her double chin. 
And as badly dressed as ever, perhaps a little more 
spotty. Her old air of anxiety had left her, it was now 
no more than a shadow, a comfortable way of sighing at 
life in general. She was happier than she had ever been 
before. Her health was excellent, she was free to do as 
she pleased, and she was much admired. She had had 
more than one offer of marriage from boarders who re- 
spected the fortitude, the maternal affection and the busi- 
ness ability of this remarkable woman. But she had no 
further use for men. 

‘‘Fve seen enough of them!” she would say. It was 
evident that she had suffered bitterly at their hands. 

Her air towards Mr. Petersen implied that she was 
magnanimously willing to let bygones be bygones. They 
talked of the boarders; they were, for the most part, 
satisfactory, she said. The usual troubles, which one 
must expect in this life, above all if one were a woman 
alone in the world, and honest. 

He spoke of Sandra. Minnie admitted that she was 
not strong, but that in her circumstances, she couldn^t do 
much for her. 

'^Send her out to us,” he urged. ‘‘The climate would 
be just the thing for her.” 

“No, thanksT Minnie answered, with irony, indicating 
her opinion of the tone of Mr. Petersen^s household. 

He offered to pay for any course of treatment, for 
sending her away. But Minnie said, sharply, that it 
wasn’t necessary ; she would outgrow her weakness ; there 
wasn’t any reason for making such a fuss about it. He 
saw with amazement that this child whom she had form- 
erly idolised was now the object of an unmistakable re- 
sentment which he could not comprehend. He wouldn’t 
have believed that it was jealousy; that as the child be- 
came a woman she became, to the instinctive female with- 


EPILOGUE 


320 

in Minnie, a rival. She was always trying to turn the 
talk away from Sandra to Robert. He was clever, he 
was obedient, he was, she said, altogether a comfort to 
her. 

At last he came in from school, and Mr. Petersen ever 
afterward regretted his visit. If he could only have kept 
the memory of his stalwart tiny son, with his clear blue 
eyes and his gleeful smile ! 

This Robert was a pale, heavy boy of eleven or twelve, 
lazy, complacent, maddeningly adult in manner. He sat 
down with the conscious intention of entertaining this 
visitor, told him things he had read in the papers. It was 
evident he did not know he was speaking to his father. 
Mr. Petersen gave him some money, and in his heart 
completely disowned him. 

Then he looked once more at her, a long, long look. 

‘Uood-bye, Minnie!” he said. 


/ 

























'' I 

' y ■ 

c 'i i . ! 

• * . 

. ' ' 

'V ' ■ ' 

\ 


/* 

i I 



I 


It 


i . .’^ 1 *, 


4 I 

> 

. r. 


/ 


» 








1 . 



















